Last Left Standing
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: Crossover with "The Stand" by Stephen King. In the summer of 1994, Henry and Mark Evans survive the superflu even as everyone they know dies around them. They wouldn't want it any other way. But they soon find another survivor their age, one who fights them off and escapes, forcing a showdown as Henry and Mark decide to retaliate.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

* * *

**XX**

* * *

Henry Evans shifted in his favorite seat, a big, luxurious leather chair, as he watched the murders on TV. The family's color television was brand-new, and it showed every death in awesome, gory detail. A gang of black men, all of them nearly naked, all of them bearing some insignia, cap, or badge of rank to show they had once belonged to the American military, had taken over some kind of television studio right here in Portland, and started the killings in a grotesque parody of Wheel-of-Fortune.

After all, no network would have ever aired this. No bunch of suits and ties would have ever had the sense and style required to allow people to get their brains blown out on live TV. Yet the huge black man wearing a loincloth and a Marine officer's cap did exactly that, again and again and again.

Mark spoke for the first time in nearly an hour. "I hope they all die."

"Got a lot of audience left, Mark," Henry said.

"No, I mean the black guys. It'd be fucking awesome if someone killed them, too."

The black man shot another white soldier, PFC Franklin Stern, and blood, brains and bone sprayed the wall nearby. Henry clapped, and so did Mark. They were up to sixty-two dead now.

"Why?" Henry asked. "Those black guys are just doing what I would."

"We would."

"Yes, we," Henry amended. "So why should somebody kill them? This is my favorite show."

"More death," Mark said. "I wanna see more death."

Suddenly, as if in answer to Mark's wish, several teams of soldiers in full combat gear, wearing chemical protection suits and gas masks, crashed in through the studio doors as the cameraman swiveled crazily in their direction, clearly taken by surprise. The roar of gunfire was instant, overwhelming. The soldiers who had just arrived shot everyone, and so did the black men, who dropped one by one as the camera fell over on its side.

"Holy shit," Henry said. "You oughta make wishes more often, Mark."

"Yeah," Mark said. He was watching the bodies fall, listening to the gunfire, the screams and moans.

Then the TV screen went blue, and a cartoon man was staring glumly at a cartoon TV that said "Sorry, we're having problems!"

"Fuck!" Mark shouted. "Fuck! I wanna see the rest of it! Turn that fucking thing back on! Henry! Turn it back on!"

"Show's over," Henry said bitterly. "They're not coming back."

"God_damn_ it!"

"Hey, maybe we can watch General Starkey lying to everybody some more." Henry got up and switched around the channels, but nearly everything was off the air by now.

Starkey had made his last appearance several days ago, and the government's attempts to shut the media up were getting extremely brutal. They were barely able to hide what they were doing anymore as they blockaded roads everywhere across the USA and murdered reporters, but then, at this point, they had little need to hide it. Virtually everyone, everywhere was dead or dying at this point.

"I wish we had a helicopter and a teleporter and a time machine," Mark said. "I wish we could see it all, over and over, and record fucking everything on VCR."

"Do you need to change your underwear again?" Henry asked.

"Do you?"

Henry had felt himself go after twenty-five murders on live TV, but Mark had made it only ten. The boys had each run upstairs to change, taking turns, hurrying like hell so they wouldn't miss anything.

"No, I'm okay." Henry smirked. "I don't get excited as easy as you, Mark."

"God, I wanna _fuck_ something!" Mark groaned. He and Henry had each gotten their first two days ago when they had broken into a house a few miles away, where they had taken turns raping this crazy hot mom who was, somehow, not even sick. Once they were done, they had spent most of the afternoon cutting her up… and her stupid, dying kid.

Henry had loved the whole thing, every second. The fact that civilization itself was clearly falling apart, collapsing faster every day, was just amazing. It meant Henry could finally do anything he wanted. He could torture, he could steal, he could kill, and thanks to the fact that the superflu had waited until Henry had just started adolescence, he could rape, too.

Only problem was, Mark now complained pretty often that he hadn't gotten laid in the past ten minutes. Ever since Henry had let Fleetwood Hall save Mark from his own bitchy, goody-two-shoes self, ever since Mark had killed his own father and come back home from Arizona, he had been wild with eagerness to embrace his new life. He relished everything he once would have been horrified to do or even consider. But Mark was a little too eager, and Henry was always having to be the cool and collected one versus Mark's passion and fiery temper.

"There's gotta be other girls who're still alive," Henry said. "We just need to be patient, Mark."

"Yeah, I know."

"Okay. So are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Then let's do it."

Henry and Mark left for the kitchen, where they had assembled lethal drinks of water using a couple of Henry's favorite chemicals. Only one cup was left filled now. Wallace was already buried in the backyard, and Henry had insisted on letting Connie lie in her open grave for a while before they buried her.

Only Susan was left. Only Henry's Mom.

She was sweating profusely, practically soaking the sheets around her, even with the AC still running. Henry regarded her pitilessly as he entered the master bedroom. For once, Susan seemed to be halfway aware of her surroundings, but as with the last two members of the family, Henry and Mark refused to allow anyone or anything to kill Susan but them.

"Henry," Susan said, turning her head to look at them. "Mark." Her voice was faint and weak.

"Mom," Henry said. He sat down beside her on the bed, and heat radiated out from her like a furnace.

"Mom," Mark said, keeping up with the charade that Wallace and Susan were his adopted parents. They were, sure, technically. But the fact was that Mark didn't give a damn. He was beyond the need for parents and always would be.

"I think, I think… you'll have to… try to make it… on your own, boys," Susan managed to say. Her voice broke as she said it. "I don't think I'll be here much longer."

"You're sick, Mom," Henry said. He offered her the poisoned cup. "I brought you some water."

"Thank you," Susan said, as rivers of sweat poured off her. "You're so sweet, Henry."

"I know, Mom."

Susan took the drink, and down it went in one gulp.

"Henry, did- did you get your father buried out back? And Connie?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Nobody's coming from the funeral home. Not from the hospital."

"No, Mom."

Susan let out a sob. "I'm so scared, boys."

"Don't be, Mom. You'll be with God soon."

Behind Susan, Mark made a face. Henry shot him the bird, and Mark stifled a laugh.

"I will miss you. Both of you. I love you… so much."

"I know, Mom."

"Thank you for being such a good son, Henry. Can you promise me you and Mark… you'll take care of each other?"

"Yes. We will, Mom. Always." That, at least, Henry actually meant.

"I love you, boys."

"We love you, too, Mom," Mark lied.

Henry, who had been incapable of loving anyone since the day he was born, gave Mark an approving smile. Mark had picked up the act so well. And for all the lies they told, the two boys were completely honest with each other at all times. They looked forward to the new world they were about to explore, the time they'd spend together, free of all restrictions, just doing anything they pleased. Captain Trips had set Mark and Henry free, given them the life they had always longed for.

Although it would've been nice if the superflu had left all the hot babes alive.

Susan had no more to say, it turned out. Henry had hoped she'd quiet down and die already, and sure enough, she did. She closed her eyes, slept, and died exactly half an hour after Henry administered the poison and sleep aid. It was as merciful a death as he had ever given anyone.

As they started to carry the body outside, Mark said, "John LaFleur wasn't sick the last time we saw him."

"No, he wasn't," Henry replied.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Okay. Let's go pay him a visit. Should be fun."

Mark smiled.

* * *

**XX**

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**A/N: 9-1-2019.**

**I got the idea for this story while I was reading "The Stand" by Stephen King, or possibly watching the 1994 TV miniseries. It occurred to me that the most "modern" setting of "The Stand" is in that miniseries, as a show or work can be presumed to be set in the present date at the time of its production, provided we're not talking about "Lord of the Rings", and unless the work specifies otherwise.**

**And, it so happens that "The Evil Angel" wraps up in 1994, right around the summertime if I recall correctly. So Mark Evans would have just moved to Maine after being adopted by Wallace and Susan when the plague hits and kills 99.4% of all humans on the planet. My belief is that Henry (and Mark, following "The Second Face") would be delighted to see the superflu hit. Partly because it would erase all restrictions on their behavior, as no order or authority figures would exist anymore. They also are both fascinated by and attracted to death, and would want to both see as much of it happen as they could, as well add some deaths themselves.**

**I don't know if Henry and Mark would be that interested in serving Randall Flagg, though. They sure would have no interest in going to see Mother Abigail and the Boulder Free Zone, but Flagg rules over Las Vegas as an omniscient dictator and his followers are in actuality little more than slaves. That would not appeal to Henry or Mark at all. They wouldn't want a job under Flagg- they would want HIS job. Flagg would be pretty thrown by two middle-school-age boys who are that ruthless and ambitious, so he might wind up seeing them as a threat unless they managed to keep their true thoughts hidden from him. And if anyone could deceive Flagg besides Tom Cullen, the sociopathic Henry and Mark Evans could.**

**The idea for this story originated around 4-1-2018, when I created the Word document for this story. It took a year and four months, almost five, for me to get around to actually writing a first chapter. I hope any fans of "The Good Son" and/or "The Stand" who read this story happen to like it. No matter what, I value feedback highly, so feel free to leave whatever commentary or criticism you like.**

**Chapter 2 is already completed, just needs to be edited some more. I will post it within the next few days.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

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**XX**

* * *

John LaFleur's pale muscles shone in the sunlight, gleaming with sweat, as he worked with the shovel, digging relentlessly in the blazing heat. He was stripped to his waist, wearing just a pair of jean shorts, and he was crying.

His parents were dead. Dad had gotten sick about a week ago, then Mom, and John had tried desperately to take care of them. As far as he knew, it was a really bad version of the flu, and you needed to lie down and get rest and drink water for that. The news, when the TV had still worked, talked about it endlessly. Drink water, get rest. Drink water, get rest. Over and over and over again, as if chanting that enough would get everyone to believe you.

Thing was, none of that worked. It wasn't enough. Ordinary life had slowed, stuttered, then stopped as people began to get sick. Deaths mounted. All of Portland's schools closed, public and private. They just called an end to the school year with virtually no explanation, beyond that the year was basically over anyway, and the teachers needed time to plan or something.

The last day, so many people had been visibly sick that John had been scared just looking around. He had been terrified that practically everyone except him, Anthony Summers, and Henry and Mark Evans had been varying degrees of sick… and nobody had any clue why, or what to do about it.

John had a feeling the teachers would not be doing any planning this summer. They might not be doing much planning ever again.

At home and with nothing else to do, John had done his best to make some progress on his summer reading. He had hoped his parents would stay well, but they didn't. They got sick. Of _course _they got sick. When it became obvious none of the household medicine cabinet's inventory could do any good, John went around from house to house. He got brief looks of hope from ill, sweaty faces that quickly grew disappointed when they saw it was just a boy. He was told no, chased away. One man yelled at him to "go back to the IRS, I ain't givin' you mothafuckas nothin'".

John called the hospital, called 911 again and again in increasing panic, but he got nowhere. No one ever answered him. The line was busy. Unwilling to leave his parents but given no real choice, John left home and rode his bike to the hospital himself.

That did no good, either. Portland General was a horrendous mess, overflowing with people just trying to get in. There were so many wrecks just in the parking lot that John never came near the doors. He had turned and fled, taken his bike back to the house, and used the medicines he'd found in the cabinet.

It hadn't been enough. Not even _close_ to enough.

Now, wrapped under black plastic bags, John's parents awaited burial. Their son had punished himself for his failure to save them by overworking his lean thirteen-year old body deliberately, trying to dig two six-foot long, six-foot deep trenches side-by-side in the backyard on the same day, in the middle of this heat.

It was hard on him, but John knew he deserved worse. Mom wouldn't have let him die. Dad wouldn't have, either. They would've found a way. They would've gotten the right medicines and saved their son. John had failed to be a good son, and the hardship of burying his own parents was a fitting price for failure.

As John neared the end of the second dig, his body cried out for mercy. His arms and shoulders, while reasonably fit, were not meant for such abuse and started trembling. John's black hair clung to his head, and he staggered on his feet. The blisters on his hands had burst, and John had put on gardening gloves to keep going. His hands, his arms, his heart, his whole body, his whole soul, was in terrible pain. As the sound of alarms and breaking glass and screams in the distance gradually faded into silence, John had wondered many times why he wasn't getting sick. Why he couldn't have at least died when Mom and Dad did.

There was no time to rest. John cried as he worked, unable to think, losing himself in his grief. He had no idea what he'd done to earn a fate like this. All of his friends had disappeared, gotten sick and died, or been killed. Anthony Summers, Jason Morgan, Mason Sarkozy… everybody. The phones didn't work anymore but Jason had sounded like he'd caught a cold the last time John had spoken to him on the phone. He had been frightened and angry, and he'd shouted about how "They're lying to us! This isn't just the goddamn _flu_! They're fucking _lying_ to us!"

Tony had just disappeared. A _lot _of people had disappeared.

A short, choppy, and abruptly cut off news segment had shown footage of mounds of human corpses on barges. The news anchor had said the government was dumping the bodies into the sea, the basements of unfinished houses, mass graves dug outside of towns and cities. John was sure he'd find many familiar faces among the bodies… assuming he could even recognize them.

Finally, as he at last finished digging the six foot trench well into the afternoon, John's arms quit and he collapsed against the side of the trench. He realized, suddenly, that he no longer had the strength to get out. He tried, but his arms refused to take any more abuse. John wept and slid back down against the dirt wall.

"John?" a boy's voice called. "John, are you there?"

"I'm here," John yelled. He took a breath, tried again. "I'm here!"

"John!" Henry Evans cried, and soon John saw the blond boy's face looking down at him as Henry ran up to the edge of the trench. "What're you doing down there, John?"

"Trying to bury Mom… and Dad…" John explained.

"Is he crying?" Mark Evans, Henry's newly-adopted brother, asked as he came into view. "Why's he doing that?"

"I think he misses his parents," Henry said.

Mark laughed like the idea was hilarious.

"John, haven't you heard? All the adults are dead! We're fucking _free_!"

"Help me," John pleaded. "My arms- I can't- I can't get out. I've been digging all day. Please."

Henry cocked his head, considered that. Mark spoke to him, and they whispered back and forth. Then Mark nodded, and Henry said, "Okay, John."

The pale blond jumped down and simply picked John up, raising him so Mark could grab his arms and lift him the rest of the way out. Then Henry simply climbed out. John looked at the other two boys. "You guys aren't sick."

"No, but plenty of people are," Mark said. "They're dropping like fucking flies out there."

"What- did your parents- are they okay?" John asked hesitantly.

"No," Henry laughed. "Dumb fucks died already. I watched it happen, John. Mark and I both did. It was _awesome_."

John suddenly felt very cold.

"We've been over to Portland General Hospital," Henry added. "Everyone's dead. There's bodies just lying in the halls. A few were still moving in the beds, so, Mark and me had to put some of 'em down. We left some others, though, so we'll go back and study them before they go. You know, for science."

"For science?" John asked, becoming more frightened of these two by the second. It took all his willpower not to just scream and start running.

"Yeah, man," Mark said, taking out a pack of cigarettes. He snapped open a lighter, held it to the lower end of the cigarette, and inhaled. "I just gotta know what genius came up with the virus that's killing everybody. That Army guy- what's his name?"

"Starkey, Lieutenant General Starkey," Henry said.

"Nerd."

"Fuck you."

"Find a girl and I'll fuck _her_."

"They're all dead, 'cept this one."

"I'm a boy," John said faintly.

"Not if we do a little surgery," Mark shrugged. "Snip, slice, and you sure won't be a guy anymore." He laughed. "No offense, John, but Henry always thought you were kind of a faggot. You look like you'd rather kiss boys anyway."

"Hey, if he wants to eat some cock, that's fine," Henry said dismissively. "More pussy for us."

Mark shrugged. "Anyway, John, the news is lying. They're fucking lying to us. The virus isn't just the common flu."

"I thought so," John said. "That's what Mom said. She said that the government isn't telling the truth. She said the regular flu doesn't do this."

"Hey, how do you like your mom being maggot food?" Henry said, and he and Mark cracked up like that was the funniest thing they'd heard in weeks.

"If this faggot wasn't immune," Mark laughed, "we could pull him over to Portland, stick his face in one of the people we left alive, strap him to a bed and watch his fucking neck swell up like a motherfucking tire."

John didn't like the way these two were looking at him, those cold, frank looks of speculation. They had something planned for him, he knew that, and it wasn't to help him through his grief.

"Guys," John said suddenly, "I gotta go inside."

"Why's that?" Henry asked.

"Don't you need to finish burying your stupid folks?"

"Yes," John said, lowering his head. "But… I got something I need to bury them with. It's important."

They looked at him, confused.

"Like _what_?" Mark asked.

"It's personal, just something they wanted me to bury them with. Just a keepsake."

"No, I mean what the hell _is it_?" Mark demanded, visibly annoyed now.

"Well-"

"Oh, let 'im go get it," Henry said, waving a hand irritably. "Go, John. We'll wait here."

Although he privately loathed the idea of turning his back on them, John headed wordlessly into the LaFleur house. Once he was well out of sight, he broke into a run. He didn't trust Mark or Henry. Something was wrong with them, with the 'friendly' way they'd come by here… and with the way they were talking.

A run turned into a headlong sprint, and John fled for the front door, spun ninety degrees to the left, then bolted upstairs as if all the demons of Hell were snapping at his heels. He thought he could maybe hear two more pairs of shoes hitting the floor downstairs, racing after him, but that may have just been his imagination. John didn't think so.

More terrified than ever, John ran like his life depended on it, knowing that it probably did. He sprinted through the open doorway to his parents' bedroom, slammed the door closed behind him. Inside the closet, behind Dad's many suits and neckties, Mom's fine gowns, dresses, and suits of her own… there it was. John had left the safe unlocked, knowing that he might not have time to get the key if something happened. That had certainly proven correct.

"Hey, JOHN!" Henry shouted, and the door to the bedroom flew open with a crash. Henry passed in front of the closet, a butcher's knife in one hand. John immediately recognized it as stolen from his own family's kitchen.

"Come out, faggot," Mark said, following Henry into the room. "We just wanna give you back your shovel."

John quietly reached for the M1. It was his grandfather's. He had carried it all through the war in the Pacific, even had carefully etched the 11th Airborne Division emblem into the right side of the stock during some spare time in the Philippines. He had met Douglas MacArthur personally, received a Silver Star from him in appreciation for taking a Japanese tank out by himself.

There was ammunition in an identical safe, much of it stowed ready in what Grandpa had called "en bloc clips". The bayonet was lying on a shelf in the safe with the rifle. John silently debated what to do, then pulled the rifle out of the safe and placed it in his lap. Sweating and praying hard, he took the bayonet and drew it from its scabbard. It was original, the real thing, just like the rifle.

No way they won't hear me, John thought, reaching for a clip. But they're gonna find me soon anyway. He pulled back the bolt just the way Grandpa had taught him, inserted the clip, let the bolt come forward without slamming shut on his thumb. John snapped the bayonet in place, flicked off the safety, and turned the M1 toward the doorway just as Henry and Mark threw it open. They saw him crouched far inside the closet and at first, they smirked, sure they had found him helpless and cowering like they had been sure they would.

Then Henry's smile dropped off his face as he noticed what John was bringing up to his shoulder.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

A trio of thunderclaps exploded inside the closet, and the muzzle flash turned night into day three times inside the small room. Henry shouted; Mark screamed. The shots had gone too high, plowing through the wall above John's parents' bed. John lowered the barrel, but the Evans boys dove out of sight. John shifted and fired through the wall to his right, and Mark screamed again. John hoped he'd scored a hit.

Suddenly, Henry reached in and pulled the closet door closed again.

"Mark, get up! Get up, let's fucking _go_!"

"All right, all right!"

As Henry and Mark stumbled back out of the master bedroom, John opened the closet door and charged left. John pulled the trigger the second he caught sight of Henry and Mark. The bullet passed between them and shattered a vase, one of Mom's favorites.

By this time, Henry and Mark were in full retreat, their pride completely forgotten as they fled back downstairs. John's arms burned and cried out for mercy, but the adrenaline coursing and John knew it was him or them. He half-ran, half-stumbled down the hardwood stairs, skidded around the corner, and shot at Henry and Mark as they ran out into the backyard. He blew a windowpane out in the back door and Henry shouted and staggered as he sprinted away.

With a final burst of speed, John made it to the back porch and clumsily fired the last three rounds. The Garand boomed, brass cases flew, and Henry and Mark vaulted over the wooden fence and into the Hendersons' backyard as the rifle went PING! and ejected the empty clip.

Breathing and sweating very hard in a way that had nothing to do with the summer heat, John lowered the M1. He fell on his knees, weeping. At least Mark and Henry didn't come back. Then he stood up and trudged wearily back inside, thinking of the old Army belt and its little pouches for things like canteens, clips, and loose ammo, wondering why, why, even with everyone he had ever known or even heard of dead or dying, people still had to go on killing each other.

_Maybe there's something really wrong with them_, John thought suddenly. _Maybe they're worse off than I thought. Maybe Henry was creepier than any of us ever imagined._

**XX**

With the M1 loaded and ready, with the pistol belt pulled tight around his waist and nine loaded clips in reserve, John stayed hidden and watched the house for hours. When he desperately had to, he urinated and defecated in a hole he'd dug under one of the bushes. Then he would go back to his latest post. Only as the sun began to set did John sling the rifle over his bony shoulders.

It took a long, long time to bury Mom and Dad. John got the family Bible, read from it after he had dragged each body into each grave and covered them with six feet of earth. He cried helplessly as he did it all, so that by the end, he could barely stand. No longer feeling safe in his own home, John hastily prepared to leave. He didn't know where to go next, but he knew he had to get out of here, out of this whole town. Henry and Mark would come back. Sooner or later, they would come back.

John got one of Dad's hiking backpacks, the only one that fit a kid, and packed it with as much food and water as he could carry. He stowed one of Mom's kits of first aid supplies, put his khaki boonie on, and stuffed a sack of loose .30-06 ammo into the crowded backpack. The load was heavy and uncomfortable, but John knew he needed all of it, right down to the can opener. He would have to be ready to scavenge off the ruins of an entire civilization, after all, once his own supplies began to run out.

The street in front of John's house was fairly clear, except for that horrifying three-car wreck that nobody had ever come to clear up. The main roads were a mess, littered with abandoned cars, trucks, buses, and vans. Some had been wrecked, others were stuck in a traffic jam that was now frozen in time forever. Still more had just stopped here and there, either switched off or run out of gas with their owners still inside them.

Gripping the M1, John started out down Larkin Street. He saw something watching him from the shadows as he passed by the Dufresne family's house. For a second, he thought he saw a pair of glowing red eyes, and that was enough. John quickly shouldered Grandpa's rifle. The cicadas went silent in the trees, and even the air seemed to stand still. Getting more frightened by the second, John flicked the M1's safety off and fired a shot.

BANG!

The red eyes disappeared instantly.

And then…

Someone, some_thing_, laughed. It was utterly inhuman, like no sound John had ever heard before in his life. John had never seen Satan, but he imagined that if the Devil laughed, it might sound something like that.

John backed away until he was at the end of Larkin Street, fighting not to let his bladder go in his shorts. He bumped into a few cars, a few of which were actually parked in their driveways. There wasn't much chance John could drive any of them. Not only were all the major streets hopelessly clogged, John was still too short. And he had no idea how to drive.

Lots of lumpy shadows were sitting inside the stream of abandoned cars occupying Decatur Street, plus all of Main Street, once John got to the intersection and looked around. He kept getting the sense of being watched, but refrained from firing the rifle any more. Even if everyone but him- and the Evans brothers- was dead in Portland now, John didn't like the idea of loudly announcing his location.

Plus, he'd already shot at whatever he had seen… or thought he'd seen. You couldn't kill or even harm everything with bullets.

As John hiked west, he looked uphill, towards the old Whitmore mansion, Fleetwood Hall. It had been sitting there, creeping everyone the hell out, abandoned yet enduring, long before God or Satan or some Army scientists or whoever had seen fit to kill everyone with some super-virus. No doubt that damn house would survive still, even as the rest of Portland rotted and decayed… like the thousands of bodies nobody would ever bury.

Well, _two_ had been buried, at least. It was all John could do. He felt worse than he could ever say for the deaths, felt guilty just for being (somehow) one of the only humans in the entire town allowed to live. There were thousands of people, their pets, everything just… lying where they had fallen. Forever.

John had no illusions about trying to do the right thing and bury all the bodies, clear it all up. He didn't have the time or the strength. Especially not the time. John continued to worry that Henry and Mark were gonna come back. His brief fierce courage had not quite deserted him, not completely, but John sure wasn't fool enough to try a battle with these two in a dead city. He was getting out of here and heading west. North or south would probably have worked just as well, but west was the most appealing choice, for some reason. It would do. Better than sticking around here.

_Maybe someday I'll come back_, John thought. _Bury all the skeletons at least, or whatever's left of everybody. Or maybe I'll just forget this place ever existed._

Passing a giant, hulking Army truck at the western edge of town, John almost screamed when he saw a couple camouflaged corpses slumped against it in the moonlight. They were rotting quickly, and the sight was as horrific as the smell. John hurried onward, grateful for the clear, open road that lay past the rusting barbed wire and the unmanned sandbags and machine guns that made up the blockade.

As John continued onward, checking behind and around him often, dogged still by a lingering sense that he was not truly alone, he was nonetheless painfully aware that everyone he had ever known was now dead (save two other boys who had tried to kill him), that everyone in the entire world was probably dead, and that even going west was probably a big waste of time. Yet it was still better than staying here. John walked onward down the empty road under the moonlight, and behind him the dead city of Portland, Maine lay darkened and silent.

And silent.

And silent.

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**XX**

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**A/N: 9-7-2019.**

**This chapter was actually written, most of it anyway, before Chapter 1 was completed. I initially meant for this to be the start of the story, with John burying his parents much as Frannie Goldsmith buried her father, Peter Goldsmith. Like Frannie with her father, John loved his parents deeply and is struggling with himself for having survived after so many have died. I imagine a great many immune humans had to deal with survivor's guilt, and all of them, we may safely assume, suffered significant trauma.**

**Henry and Mark do not often back down from anyone or anything, but when confronted with impossible odds, they will. They are capable of recognizing a situation where they cannot win. They never let anything go, however, so if you cross them, they'll never stop trying to get even with you. Like Ace Rothstein says of Nicky Santoro in the 1995 film Casino, you beat Henry and Mark with a gun, you better kill 'em, because they'll keep coming back and back until either you or them is dead.**

**And by the way, this story is part of my overall plan to drum up some ideas for additional stories for The Good Son. It is an obscure film from 1993, and the Todd Strasser novelization should honestly have been the exact script for the film, but I still liked it and saw potential in it for fanfiction right away. AM83220 contacted me over half a decade ago asking me to write a sequel to my first story for TGS, and now here I am, writing my fifth.**

**All feedback is welcome. Feel free to post a review, send me a PM, or both.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

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**XX**

* * *

Henry swore violently as he slammed the brakes on the enormous Oldsmobile station wagon he was driving, causing the brakes to lock. He had absolutely no idea what he was doing as a driver, and clumsiness and constant fouling up was the result.

"Goddamn!" Mark cried, tumbling into the front dash and then the floor. "Fuck!"

"Mark," Henry shouted, "just hold on!"

"Shit!" Mark shouted. "Motherfucker shot me! Goddamn it!"

A lifetime ago, Henry would have gone running to the nearest hospital with a lie ready, but two things had changed everything. First, the hospitals were jam-packed with dead bodies; attempting to save his sibling using whatever stocks were left in that nexus of death would be pointless. Second, Mark had been saved by the magnificent old house Henry had just stopped at. The place had bailed him out once already.

Henry just hoped it would be able to do the job this time. Henry had yanked some gauze out of a crashed ambulance and wrapped it around his own right shoulder and Mark's left. Shards of broken glass had sliced marks all over Henry's shoulder, and a bullet had torn through Mark's. The auburn-haired boy was already forcing the door open and getting out of the car, but it was clear that he was in incredible pain.

"I can't believe that little faggot shot me," Mark said in disbelief. "He kisses boys and he fucking shot me."

"We'll kill him, Mark," Henry promised. "He'll get it like he's never dreamed of. Come on, we gotta get you inside."

"I can't wait," Mark said with a weary smile. "I love this place."

"Yeah, now that you're not afraid of everything," Henry said. He went to Mark, took his right arm and threw it over his shoulder.

"Aw, fuck, this hurts!" Mark hissed as they started walking.

"You'll be fine."

"Goddamn, I didn't see this shit coming," Mark said. "I swear I'll fuck up that little fag if it's the last thing I do."

"He'll pay," Henry vowed. "He'll pay. Just you wait."

As they reached the front doors, Henry reached for the right handle, but barely touched it before the door swung open on its own. Still supporting his wounded brother, Henry focused on putting one foot ahead of the other.

"We got any guns in this house?" Mark asked, still breathing hard. Blood had turned most of the white bandages on his shoulder maroon.

"Not that I know of. But we can look around. Maybe this place will come up with something." Henry raised his voice. "Hey, Great Aunt Helen, some guns would be good, all right? Is there an armory in here?"

They made it up the Grand Staircase with Mark cursing and swearing all the way, then turned and began making the long trip down the Corridor, the extremely long hallway that ran almost the entire East-West length of the house. Henry's shoulder grew damp, and he looked and saw Mark looking pale, his face dripping with sweat.

_Shit._

"Henry," Mark said suddenly, "I-I don't feel so good."

"You'll be fine!"

"I want you to know," Mark went on in a tired voice, partly slurred. "I want you to know, Henry, that I love you, and thank you for saving me." He paused. "Little faggot shot me."

Then Mark's knees gave and he passed out.

Henry cried out as the full weight of his growing brother fell on his injured shoulder, but he managed to kneel and slide Mark off him. After taking a moment to assess the situation, Henry reached down and lifted Mark up onto his shoulders. That was a lot to take on at once, even for Henry, but he managed. Sweating hard and growing truly frightened now, Henry started to head down the hall at a plodding, maddeningly-slow pace.

I won't give up. I can't. If he dies, I'm dead. Life will be pointless. But… I guess, if that happens, I gotta go finish the job. John will be so sorry if Mark dies. He'll get it a thousand times worse. Left, right, left, right…

Refusing to give up now after he had come so far, Henry kept Mark atop his shoulders and marched onward, getting closer, ever closer to the Glass Library. The closer it got, though, the further away it seemed, the less Henry could tolerate the remaining distance. Swearing that he would get even with John LaFleur if it was the last thing he ever did, Henry forced himself to keep going even as his lean shoulders trembled under the weight.

"Shit," Henry gasped, feeling every ounce that Mark weighed, wishing that his beloved sibling hadn't taken to working out with so much enthusiasm. The very thing the two boys had encouraged each other to do was making it harder to save Mark now.

As he neared the door, Henry concentrated on it with all his might, willed for the fucking thing to open! Incredibly, in Henry's greatest hour of need, it did, and he staggered through with Mark on his shoulders, spasms wracking his biceps and shoulders. The blond boy made it to the middle of the room, the center, the heart of the house's power. With agonizing slowness, he knelt and slid Mark to the floor.

Then Henry fell over and passed out himself.

**XX**

Under the floor, Mark, wounded and in pain, reached out for Henry. Not physically; his need was deeper than that. Mark pleaded for Henry telepathically, asked where he was, and felt a flood of relief when his brother answered.

_I'm here, Mark. I'm here._

_I'm not going to die, Henry._

_No. You're going to live._

_I can't die. I have too much to do first._

_You're damn right we do._

Mark slipped in and out of consciousness, which was already difficult to define precisely down here, in the strange and mysterious depths below the Glass Library's floor. He felt pulsing heat, then an itching he couldn't scratch. He felt Henry's mind reaching for him, comforting him, promising without a word that all would be okay.

That meant the world to Mark. It meant everything. Briefly, Mark tried to imagine why he had ever disagreed with Henry, ever found cause to argue or fight with him during his visit back in 1993. His true identity as Henry's brother had not yet been discovered then, not yet recognized. That the boys were born as cousins meant nothing to either of them, and since Henry had given a piece of his soul for Mark, since Mark had been changed by that gift, they had been brothers on a far more important level than who one's parents were.

_I don't know what it was like then_, Mark thought distantly. _I know I was mistaken. Obviously I was. Henry is my brother. Why would I disagree with him about anything?_

That Mark could not think past that, could not remember much of his life before 1993, did not bother him in the slightest. He wasn't terribly interested in recalling his old life anyway. Life without Henry had been incredibly boring. It was like remembering 12 years of watching the paint dry. Did you really want to?

Slowly but steadily, the pain faded. It was not so much that the wound was healed- the very fact of Mark getting shot was erased. It was as if Mark had never been hit at all.

Just as Mark began to think gratefully of his Great Aunt Helen and this magnificent house, he saw something. A skinny, sweaty, frightened-looking kid with a mess of black hair was hiking down the side of a highway, the one where Henry had thrown Mr. Highway from that overpass last year.

West, Mark realized, he has to be heading west. And he won't be going very far or very fast. He's not used to the weight of the gear, or that gun he's carrying. He surprised us last time. This time, we'll be the ones surprising him.

As if to encourage that idea, that line of thinking, Mark's vision changed. He saw himself and Henry ambushing John, smacking him in the face with a car door as he made his way through an endless sea of stalled and wrecked vehicles. They disarmed him, pinned him down, cut his belt and pulled his pants down. John struggled and started to scream, but Mark and Henry just laughed. Henry forced the kid's skinny legs apart, and Mark took careful aim and sliced. The agonized scream that followed warmed Mark's heart.

When Mark woke up, he was naked, and so was Henry. The messy, blood-stained clothes Mark had been wearing were beside him, perfectly clean. Henry hurried over, hugged Mark joyfully.

"You're all right! I knew this place would save you again!"

"Mf, yeah! I'm doing great."

"I love you, Mark."

"I love you, too, Henry. Now, can we get dressed? I don't need to see your fucking dick and your balls just dangling around."

"Jeez, Mark," Henry said, laughing. "We just popped our cherries taking turns with that cunt in her house. How's seeing me like this bother you?"

"It doesn't bother me. I just don't need to see it."

Henry shrugged his pale, lean shoulders and went back to get his own cleaned clothes. The boys dressed and headed back out of the Glass Library together.

"So, did you see what I saw?" Mark asked.

"John's heading west."

"Not to Vegas, not to- whoever he is."

"No, not him. I bet he's heading to Colorado, hoping some boys his age are still alive so he can go and be fucking gay with them."

"I know what highway he's on."

"Me, too."

Mark considered something. "We better have guns when we try to get him this time."

"You don't wanna kill him with a knife?"

"We might need to shoot him to take him down, but we make it so that doesn't kill him. In the shoulder or something. Then we cut him up."

"All the hunting stores and stuff are looted or bought out," Henry said. "Not much chance there. But, I know of this old guy on the edge of town. I bet we can find what we need there."

"How?"

"This guy had a hundred guns in his house, Mark, from what I heard. A lot of 'em were illegal, but he didn't care. Wallace was always saying he didn't understand how this guy got away with it, but it doesn't matter now. No way did he clear out with all his guns, even if he tried to leave before he died."

"Who says somebody else didn't get there first and rob him?"

"Not that many people knew, Mark, and you see all the cars out there on the roads? Everyone wanted to leave. That or crawl into bed and choke on their own snot and die. They weren't thinking logical, or scientific. They just ran like scared rabbits."

"So, like me before you saved me."

Henry smiled warmly at Mark, and it was clear he was pleased. "Yes," he said, "just like that."

"So, when do we go there?"

"Now."

As the boys made their way out of the house, Henry got back behind the wheel of the Oldsmobile wagon, and Mark took a seat on the passenger side of the bench. Henry was a clumsy and inept driver, but he got them out of the yard in a series of fits and starts. After almost running into a tree a couple times, Henry got the hang of it, more or less, and the journey to the old guy's house began.

**XX**

Navigating the stalls and wrecks took a while, but since they were off the main roads, the streets were at least still drivable. Henry got them to the house, where the garage door sat firmly closed before an empty driveway. As Mark got out, he noted that the doors were all intact, the windows unbroken. It was a good sign that Henry had been right, but then, Mark had expected all this. Henry was always right.

As Henry got out, he didn't bother taking the keys out of the ignition. After only a moment Mark understood why; nearly everyone in the entire world was dead. There was nobody left alive to take the car, and with so many roads jammed, there was essentially nowhere for it to go.

The doors were locked, of course, but Henry and Mark amused themselves by taking some bricks from the front walk and hurling them at the front windows for several minutes, cheering every time they smashed in more glass. Had the old dude been alive and kicking, he would have come, either shouting or shooting, or maybe both. No one showed up. No one threatened to call the cops. Mark laughed at that one, told Henry about it. What cops? They were all dead, too. It was Henry and Mark's dream to have no restrictions, no rules, nobody to get in their way, and here it was, handed over on a silver platter almost immediately following Mark's relocation to Maine.

After demolishing almost all of the living room windows, Henry and Mark climbed in and unlocked the front door. Then they began searching the house, and after pawning the keys the old guy had tried to hide above the doorframe to his bedroom, they found the room they wanted. Inside were several gun safes, ex-Army ammo cans by the dozen (all filled to the top with either loose rounds or boxes from stores), paperwork on most of the guns, and a legion of books on operation, maintenance, and history on every gun in the room.

There were guns here from the American Revolution, from the American Civil War, the world wars… on it went. Henry detoured to check another room and quickly found the guy had stashed tons of MRE's and sealed gallons of clean water, making this place a virtual warehouse for one's post-apocalyptic needs. It was perfect. Mark, meanwhile, stayed in "the armory," a 25-pound gun he'd found sitting on his lap, leather shoulder strap and an ammo drum already in place.

"Hey, Mark," Henry called, coming back down the hall, "I said I found even more of the food and water. We're gonna be set. Hey, you hear me?"

"Yeah," Mark said, a smile creeping onto his face. "We're gonna be set."

"No," Henry breathed. "No way did you find that."

"I found you something, too." Mark gestured at the shark-like carbine he'd found, banana magazine in, a bayonet attached. Wood furniture so dark it was nearly black, like the finish on the stamped steel parts.

Henry walked slowly over to it, eyes wide, and picked the rifle up. He looked it over lovingly, held it close, like he could not bear to let it go. "68," Henry said, looking to the left of the weapon's rear sight. "What's this shit? Chinese?"

"Korean," Mark said, still not looking up from his find. "It's North Korean. A Type 68. The guy had labels for every fucking gun in here, and where it was from."

"Goddamn," Henry said quietly. "Bit of an opposite to what you found."

"It still kills people."

"Oh, fuck yes, it does." Henry grinned. "Man, I wish I could've used this on Connie. Bam, bam, bam, maybe a bayonet stab or two."

"She'd have whined like a fucking bitch," Mark said. "Given us a goddamn headache."

"Yeah, but she always did that anyway."

"We could just fucking obliterate that little faggot with these guns," Mark said reverently. "He won't even know what hit him."

"You sure you can carry that thing? We better get moving before that girl gets further away."

"I'll be fine," Mark assured him. Though still light and lean, Mark's body was strong, and having fully healed from his gunshot wound, Mark felt better than ever. He rolled up a sleeve and flexed a well-developed bicep. "I'm ready."

"An MG-42," Henry said in awe. "An MG-42 and a fucking AK."

"I wanna just wound him," Mark said. "I wanna make him suffer."

"But if we vaporize him accidentally, that's good, too, right?"

"Sure, Henry." Mark grinned. "That's fine."

"C'mon, brother," Henry said. "Time to get our packs ready. Then we'll go get him."

"He's dead," Mark observed. "He has no idea what he's in for."

"He'll learn. You and I are gonna teach him."

"Yeah." Mark laughed. "I can't wait. I almost feel sorry for that guy."

"Almost," Henry said. "C'mon. I wanna enjoy this."

"You and me both, man," Mark said.

**XX**

John LaFleur cursed as another bead of sweat dripped into his eye, wishing he could've found some way to drive past all the stalled cars that packed the highway. He moved only during the day, despite the brutal heat and the need to constantly stop for water and cover his bare upper body with sunscreen. Had there been any girls left, they would've enjoyed the sight of John's classic pop-star looks, plus the way he was beginning to get quite a nice suntan… but there weren't any. And John was marching at the most strenuous pace he could stand, keeping it up no matter what, because he was afraid of what might be after him. Who might be after him.

There was nothing that could have convinced John to travel at night. He wasn't sure who owned the day, but the Dark Man, the Walkin' Dude- he owned the night. John had never been out west, had never seen the cornfields of Nebraska, but he had seen them more than once in his dreams. He didn't know who owned a banjo or somesuch out that way, but he knew who the red eyes belonged to. John was heading west, technically toward the Man in Black, but not to him. Never to him. John was terrified of that man, but he also knew death would be better than servitude. He already had two monsters behind him here in the east. He didn't need to bow to another out in the west.

As he stopped for water amidst the sea of cars, John saw some roadmaps spilled out of a Pontiac Safari's glove compartment. Without thinking at all, he shouldered the M1 and opened the door with one hand.

The sharp, overwhelming stench of death blew out of the car in a putrid cloud. Baking in the summer sun, sealed in by the closed windows, were a dead adult, a man, and a dead woman and four kids. She had moved to the second row seat and at some point had died with her children still clustered around her, still in her arms. John looked at the decaying bodies, at the swelling, the bloating, the marks on their necks that said Captain Trips had paid them all a visit, and wanted to scream.

John jerked back so fast he hit his head on the doorframe, saw stars and almost cracked his head on the next car. He caught himself, staggered away blindly, leaned up against a Chevrolet Astro, and vomited. Just as he thought he was done, John caught a whiff of the rot now billowing out of the Pontiac's open front passenger door and his stomach violently heaved up what little he had left.

It was agony, standing there like that. John wanted to die, but at the same time, he didn't. Couldn't. Captain Trips had taken everyone, everything, and left John alive. He had been raised to be religious, to believe in hope and a plan for all this, and with nothing left he desperately clung to that. There was hope. There had to be.

John gradually recovered himself and went back to the Pontiac. He thought about taking the road maps but ultimately just shut the door. There was no way he could make himself lean inside that car and get that close to those dead people. He just couldn't make himself face that smell again, that awful scent of death, urine and fecal matter. If anyone would have mocked him for it, John would have told them he didn't care, but nobody was left anymore. Nobody but him and Henry and Mark Evans.

They were far behind by now, John hoped, busy dealing with the fact that John had shot one or both of them. It would both shock them, put some fear in them, but also it would mean they would have to spend days trying to heal. Maybe they would run for a hospital and search through the ruins of a charnel house attempting to locate what they needed, not realizing that the hospitals were nothing but giant morgues now, their stocks utterly depleted in nine cases out of ten. Maybe Henry's wounds would get infected, and maybe Mark's, too. Maybe they would both die of some sickness besides the plague, or maybe they would kill themselves. John didn't know. And what bothered him, as cruel and heartless as Henry and Mark had revealed themselves to be, he didn't care.

* * *

**XX**

* * *

**A/N: 10-18-2019.**

**The actual chapter is 3,510 words, a little on the short side, but that's okay. You don't have to stick with any arbitrary chapter length. The key is to reach a logical stopping point, then close there and get going with the next chapter. Obviously you need chapters to be of some significant length; 50 words is not good enough. But as long as a chapter is at least 800-2000 words, that's sufficient and you can work with that.**

**The Type 68 assault rifle is North Korea's locally-produced copy of the AKM, the updated and improved AK-47 that has accounted for most of the production of Kalashnikov-type rifles in the world. The reputation of the AK-47 has been built on the back of the AKM, and it is the version that has the true reliability and durability that the AK is known for. North Korea's copy of the real AK-47 is the Type 58. Both are chambered in 7.62x39mm and are based on the same design, but the Type 68/AKM features many revisions and improvements that fine-tune the rifle and make it what the world knows it to be, the world's toughest assault rifle.**

**Henry and Mark are just tall enough by 1994 that they can drive a car, although neither of them has had any formal education on it. The result is that they would both drive quite clumsily, as Henry did here in this chapter. Nobody will be driving cars very much in the post-plague wastelands of the former U.S.A., however, since the roads and highways are jammed and no one will be coming along with a tow truck. So Henry and Mark, just like John, will be making their journey on foot.**

**A sincere thank-you to anyone who reviews this story. I value all feedback highly.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

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**XX**

**A/N: My sincere thanks to AM83220, the best reader, reviewer and sounding board that a writer could ask for. You're the best. Also, to phorosz and fear2breathe, should you read this- you two have both inspired and encouraged me in my work on this fanfiction archive as well. The "Good Son" fanfiction 'community' may be small, but it's wonderful interacting with all of you.**

**XX**

* * *

The rain was pouring down so hard John LaFleur could barely see where he was going. Following Route 25, he'd made it to Gorham and then to Standish in his first full day of marching, and then to Cornish on the next. He treated all the stalled and wrecked cars as if they were tombs, to be left undisturbed for all time. He felt no temptation to open any more car doors. The memory of the last time he'd tried that still scarred him, and probably always would.

John had not seen a single living human since Henry and Mark Evans had come to kill him. Mile after mile, town after town, the world had gone silent forever. There was simply no one left alive.

Under the heavy rain, John sighted a small gas station on the right and headed for it gratefully. He made it over, rapped sharply on the door several times with the M1 to see if anybody responded, then swung the stock and smashed the glass in. The CLOSED sign fell among the thousands of shards of glass, and John's boots crunched over them as he stepped inside. Setting the Garand down near the door, John unzipped his pants and urinated into a puddle outside. He'd had to go for hours, had marched for an hour even after the rain had begun. The fear that Henry and Mark might come back for him was powerful, inescapable; John had marched on through the downpour in the hopes that they wouldn't, that they would stop and wait.

Once he was done, John realized he wasn't. Oh, man… the idea of squatting with his back facing the way attackers would most likely come, from the road…

Well, there had to be back door. John zipped back up, shouldered the M1, and swept the store. It was standard countryside gas station fare, lots of junk food and a few loaves of bread that had already passed their expiration date. John noted the presence of a good stock of water bottles, even gallons, and-

Crunch!

_SHIT!_

John spun around and fired the M1 on sheer instinct. He pulled the trigger again and again, convinced that Henry and Mark had at last caught up with him, had tracked him even here. But his target was no longer there. Running footsteps, sneakers smacking on the tiled floor-

With a feral growl that grew into a wild scream, a boy leapt up and over from the next aisle. Even as John's ears rang from the three shots he had fired, the other boy swung a pistol at him, aiming for his face. John ducked away but the other boy collided with him, sending them both crashing to the floor. Desperate to keep his weapon, John held onto the M1 with both hands, twisted and rolled to get away. He took a blow to the side of the head, fired, kicked while the other boy was stunned by the blast of noise.

"Ugh!" the other boy exclaimed. He landed on his back two feet away, and the pistol fell from his hand. John sprang forward, the bayonet making the rifle seem even longer than it was, and screamed, "Hands up! Hands up! Hands up!"

"Fuck you!" the boy shouted. He bolted for the pistol, snatched it up, spun around. He fired once, shattering a glass refrigerator door. John ducked and yelled. "Hold on! Wait a minute!"

"What?"

"Jason Morgan! You're Jason Morgan! I recognize you!"

The dark-haired boy paused, visibly confused. He was trying to decide whether or not to shoot.

"I don't know you," he hissed.

"You went to school with me! I played soccer, you played football! Your best friend was Tony Summers-"

"Tony," the boy gasped. "How do you- you don't- who're you?"

"I'm John LaFleur."

Jason Morgan's aim wavered. He lowered the pistol slightly. "Put your fuckin' gun down, lemme see you. Come over to the door."

John lowered the barrel so it pointed at the floor, but kept the rifle firmly in his hands. He moved forward slowly, cautiously, and Jason backed up, still regarding John warily.

The other boy's eyes widened as John moved in front of the front door, where the light making it through the rain and clouds lit up his pale face, the slight flush in his cheeks, the swirly cut of black hair that he'd once kept so stylish and well-conditioned.

"John?"

"Yes."

"How are you still alive?"

"I don't know."

Jason lowered the handgun. "Have you seen Tony? Where is he?"

"I haven't seen him."

"Your family all dead?"

"Yes. Everyone. I buried my parents."

Jason paused. "I don't remember."

"You don't remember what?"

"Family. Home. I don't know. I made it here. Got in back. Ate some of the food. I don't know. I can't remember."

Jason talked in strange, jerky sentences, and he had an oddly distracted look about him. It was like certain files were deleted and he was trying to find them on his personal computer, but failing.

"I was hoping to stay out of the rain here," John offered.

"Well, I guess that's okay," Jason said. The dirty, confused kid holding the pistol bore no resemblance to the ultra-cool, confident young athlete John had gone to school with. The two boys had never really talked that much, but they saw each other around, and they were bonded in a way by a mutual admiration for the fun and irresistible energy of Anthony Summers.

Their mutual friend was vanished into the unknown regions of a dead world, the old world, and no one could call him back. That was, unless Anthony, too had survived, but John didn't think so. It was miraculous enough that four had survived among more than 64,000. It didn't seem likely that there would be a fifth.

John hesitated. "Look, I know we weren't friends before-"

"Before," Jason said. He jerked his head up. "Before? I don't remember that. I don't- what do you mean?"

"Well, I mean, like, we went to school together-"

"I know your face," Jason said, "but I don't know why. I don't- I don't wanna talk about this anymore."

Then Jason Morgan, the boy who'd bragged so much about his plans to go to the gym and lift weights and be a big ladies' man in high school, dropped to his knees and passed out. Mercifully, he fell so his face didn't land on the sea of shattered glass.

**XX**

John found Jason's makeshift sleeping quarters, hidden away in the compact storage and supply room this little store had maintained. He'd been using a sleeping bag, eating whatever he could find in the store, going to the bathroom in a corner. While Jason was out, John cleaned up the mess with materials he found in a janitor's closet, amazed that he hadn't been driven back out the front door by the smell.

When he woke up, Jason wouldn't talk about where he was from. He acknowledged that he knew John, but couldn't say where or how without stuttering to a halt, confusion and distress plain on his face. John wasn't sure if Jason was making a conscious choice to delete everything he'd known in Portland, or if sheer mental/emotional trauma was compelling him to in order to stay sane. But as long as he stayed off that topic, Jason would go back to looking at him distrustfully instead of talking in that halting, jerky manner and getting more wound up by the minute.

When John remembered his need to go again, he headed for the back door and Jason followed, watching curiously. Jason kept his pistol and watched as John, unwilling to get his main set of clothes soaked, stripped naked so he could go in the rain.

It was quite a surreal experience, stepping out into the downpour, naked as the day he'd been born, a classmate who didn't remember a damn thing watching him with a pistol. Had life gone on like it was supposed to, they would've both been at home, waiting for the next day of summer fun to begin, or maybe over at a friend's house, having a great time doing one thing or another. Their parents would've been running their schedules, keeping food on the table and the lights on and everything else that you took for granted as a kid. Now, John was waiting patiently so he could shit on the grass behind a random gas station off Route 25. The world had sure changed, all right.

As he defecated, John prayed that Mom and Dad wouldn't judge him too harshly for abandoning all dignity like this. He was going to the bathroom the only way he could, because there were no working toilets anymore, not for anybody, and Jason had claimed one corner already. Gradually, it dawned on John that there had been little point to this effort to keep his clothes dry; he'd been in the rain for an hour before getting here. Oh, well. This was sort-of getting him a bath, at least.

Once John came back inside and pulled his shorts back on, Jason looked at him. "You're in pretty good shape."

"Oh, uh, thanks."

Jason pointed at John's bare upper body, to his arms, shoulders, and chest. "That's not bad. But you need to go to the gym more."

"I'd like to, eventually."

"I'm gonna go to the gym when I get there."

"Where are you going?"

Jason frowned. "The man in the desert… he… he wants me to go to him. But I don't know. I could. But I think I could go to somewhere in Colorado… maybe they won't have so many rules there. I don't know. I don't think Las Vegas is much fun anymore."

John considered asking Jason what happened to him, why he didn't remember anything, why he talked so strangely at times. But then he already had enough to keep him awake at night for the rest of his life. Jason had walked through Hell as the world died around him. That was a given, and if he couldn't or wouldn't say more, then John wasn't going to bother him about it.

"You should come with me," John said as the rain drummed on the roof, on the ground, on the legions of dead cars outside. "You should go to Colorado."

"The Dark Man," Jason said suddenly. "He'll know. He sees everything. The Eye sees."

"I hope not," John said uneasily. "But I won't go to him. I'm not going there."

"He'll know. He'll see us. I know he will. He sees it all. Everything. All of heaven and earth." Jason's entire body trembled as he spoke those words. Then he sighed, and whatever had been in his eyes left. His shoulders slumped. "Tony's dead," he almost whispered. "I know he is. I miss him."

Then Jason put his head in his hands and bawled helplessly, like a child. When John tried to get closer, tried to put an arm around his shoulders, Jason bared his teeth and hissed savagely, shoved John away with surprising strength. He scurried off to the supply room, squatted in the corner to relieve himself, then hid in his sleeping bag with the pistol and a hunting knife beside him.

John took a seat behind the counter, the M1 at his side, watching the rain through the shattered door. He thought of Mom and Dad and cried miserably, wishing he could have been there for them, the way they would have done for him. He missed them. He missed his grandparents, his cousins, his aunts and uncles. All gone. Every friend, every neighbor, everyone he had ever seen or known.

All that was left was the traumatized, ruined, near-feral remains of the boy who had been Jason Morgan. A boy who shit and pissed in the corner of a cheap gas station supply room, talked strangely of a Dark Man and how he couldn't remember, and who didn't trust John and probably never would. He'd backed down from attempting to kill him, but that was about it. What fun.

Thunder crashed outside, and John dived below the counter, taking the M1 with him in one swift motion. He huddled there, waited and listened, and then fled for the supply room himself. Jason was asleep, but he gripped his pistol and growled at whatever was with him there in the dark. John quietly moved past him, shouldered his rifle, and used the cleaning supplies he'd gathered to clean up behind Jason again. He deposited the mess outside, then closed the back door, locked it, and propped himself up against it in an effort to keep it shut.

Hours of marching remained ahead, and John knew it. His eyes drooped shut, and he fell asleep dreaming of Freedom, New Hampshire, and the long journey west. That was how he started, at least. The dreams took him elsewhere before long.

**XX**

John's black paratrooper boots hit the ground right as he expected them to; he kept his legs pressed close together, knees bent, and executed a perfect parachute landing fall. As he stood up and unclasped his chute, he looked for Grandpa and found him already rallying men in the center of the road nearby. John had almost landed in the cornfield, in the endless sea of corn, and he knew the drop had been risky because of that. The narrow strip of road and the grass to either side was ideal. You could land in the corn, but you had to get out before dark, and it the sun was starting to drop…

"Hey!" Grandpa shouted. "Get over here!"

"Yes, sir!" John yelled, and foolishly went for his rifle. Gone! It was gone!

Then Grandpa was there, thrusting his M1, his rifle from the war, into John's hands.

"You're gonna need this," Grandpa said solemnly. "You're gonna need this, John. There's a hell of a rough road ahead."

Then thunder crashed, the sky went dark, and the wind picked up. John stood alone in the middle of the road. The men, the paratroopers with their 11th Airborne Division patches on their shoulders, they were all gone. John whirled around, afraid that he had missed them moving out. His eyes frantically scanned the corn. He hoped nobody was out there, injured after their landing.

Someone was playing a banjo- no, a guitar. Grandpa had one of those! Maybe he was out there. John hurried in the direction of the music, the M1 in his hands, helmet slipping down over his small head. He was a little kid, sure, but someone had summoned him for the fight. He was out west somewhere, far out west, in a place he had never seen before in his life. Yet the 11th Airborne had a mission, a job to do, and John needed to get to the rally point and stand with his Grandpa against whatever storms may come. That was one of his favorite phrases, John remembered, "Whatever storms may come."

John paused to fix a long blade bayonet on the Garand as he crept into the corn, ready to fight any Krauts or Japs up close if he had to. Grandpa had fought Japs, but he'd been ready to take on Krauts just the same. Grandpa Myron feared nobody.

A woman was singing, an old woman by the sound. Maybe she was a Jap, but John didn't think so. She sounded American to him, if his guess was worth anything. John crouched and crept out of the corn. He moved quickly up to the side of the old clapboard house, an ancient-looking place that had probably been built back when New York City was just a small town with a well.

"What a friend we have in Jesus," the old woman sang, playing the guitar as skillfully as Grandpa Myron ever had.

"Ma'am," John called out as he moved forward, "Ma'am, I'm- have you seen the rest of the soldiers out here?" He tried to sound confident, in control, aware that he was a little kid in a uniform.

As John moved cautiously out onto the front lawn, he saw the brown-skinned woman sitting in a rocking chair, guitar in her hands. She looked as ancient as the house. Her worn, wrinkled face broke into a brilliant smile as she saw John.

"Well, hello, there, John LaFleur! I wondered when you'd _drop in_." She chuckled, clearly enjoying her remark.

"I'm lost," John admitted. "Nobody else is here."

"Your Grandpa Myron fought his fight already, John," the old woman said. "His 11th Airborne had their fight, too. They came back to warn you."

"I don't want to fight," John pleaded. "I don't want to kill anyone. Too many people are dead. I miss my Mom and Dad."

"I can feel your hurtin' from here, child," the woman said gently. "But you got a soldier in you, and you need to let him come out. It's a rough road ahead. Your friend, he ain't ready for it. You gotta be there for both of you for now."

"Jason? Where- I don't see him."

"Don't let him go to the City of Sin, child. Stay clear of there. Don't believe them promises _he_ makes. That storm's comin' and you better be ready."

"What storm, what-"

"Him! _His_ storm!" the woman cried, as dark clouds, nearly black, swirled overhead. The wind howled, and red eyes glowed in the corn, moving closer.

John brought his rifle around, tried to raise it, couldn't. He stood rooted to the spot as a Dark Man, the Man With No Face, drew closer. The dark figure raised his arms, arms that dripped with blood.

"Get inside the house!" John shouted. "Stay inside!"

"Look," the Tall Man commanded, and John looked. He saw a boy clad in black, pale, cold eyes staring pitilessly as fire burned thousands before him. He saw himself.

"No!" John screamed.

"Heaven and earth," the figure said. "All of heaven and earth."

**XX**

John barely choked back a scream as he woke up. The M1 was still on his lap, and rain still fell outside. There was a leak inside, too, or- over in the corner, Jason Morgan was crouched, facing outward, urinating. He held the pistol in one hand, and John realized the other boy was naked. Jason saw John, hissed, and fled back to his sleeping back and dove inside. John got up, shifted his pack, and took it off. He drew out one of his cans of food, some cream of corn. He got out the can opener and a spoon, opened the can up and set the lid aside, and walked toward the sleeping bag. He set the can down, put the spoon in it, and went back to the door, where he unrolled his own bag and lay down on it.

Gradually, the sleeping bag across the room rustled, and the other boy carefully approached the can. Then he snatched it up, rapidly fed the contents to himself, scraped it clean, then threw the can away with a clatter and ran back to his bag.

John didn't know what to think. He couldn't take care of Jason, whatever had happened to him. He could barely take care of himself. Yet how could he abandon Jason? There was no way of knowing how he'd made it out this far, but he clearly showed no signs of going any farther. He might never leave this place on his own, and gas station snack food would not last him very long.

_Jason was one of the strongest boys in my class_, John thought, remembering. _A natural athlete. You could already tell he was gonna be popular in high school. Real popular. And here he is, hissing and scavenging for food like an animal. What did he see before he got here? What happened to him?_

There was no way to know, ever, unless Jason himself wanted to talk. His higher functions collapsed with sundown, it seemed. After dark, he was a feral. He'd talk during the day, some, if this first meeting was any indication. He'd even praised John's current fitness and encouraged him to do more. He'd talked of wanting to go to the gym once he "got there," wherever that was.

_I wonder if I could run a YMCA with him_, John thought. _He seemed to speak and think at his best when he was on that topic. I should ask him about that more. When he isn't taking a shit in the corner of the supply room, that is._

_Remember you don't know what he saw on his way here_, a voice answered him. _You know he's been through it as bad as you, maybe even worse. He wouldn't have become like this if he'd had any real choice._

As the rain fell outside, John wondered, distantly, what life might have been like had there been no plague. Henry Evans wouldn't have ever been anybody popular; that just wasn't possible. Cold and aloof, openly contemptuous of anyone who crossed him and quick to violence when riled, Henry was also known for doing… things. Throwing rocks at birds with unbelievable accuracy, smiling whenever he made sure one was dead. And he always made sure. "Creepy Henry," the kids called him, and his fierce hatred of that nickname only drove his alienated peers to apply it more.

Jason Morgan, John remembered, had been one of the ringleaders. He had really known little about Henry but found the nickname funny, and John supposed a mean and petty side of Jason had just enjoyed slapping the nickname on. And there was no reason to believe that wouldn't have continued into middle school, and then into high school. Henry would've stayed creepy, and Mark… John didn't know a single thing about Mark. That boy was an unknown factor, a mystery. But nothing he could've done would've been enough to reverse Henry's colossal social failure. Nobody liked Henry Evans.

Given time, Jason would've likely become the King of the Overconfident and Athletic Boys, a role he would have no doubt loved and relished. Now he was reverting to bare survival instincts, so devoted to staying safe and hidden that he relieved himself in a corner instead of going outside. It was crazy, but then the whole fucking world had gone crazy. Well, for a while it had, anyway. Now it was quiet. No, not even quiet. The world was just dead.

_Like Mom and Dad, like all my friends, everybody_, John thought. He wept, heartbroken and exhausted, and at some point he drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

**XX**

The blond boy was about twelve or thirteen, and he sat in the middle of the road, clutching his leg. As the band of survivors drew closer, he cried out. "Help! Please help me!"

An older man with a hunting rifle raised his hand, a signal for the rest of his group to halt. He and his people had business with the man in the desert, but they hadn't really planned on picking up more along the way. Still, the kid was clearly on his own, and he was whining too much to be able to pose any threat.

"Who are you, kid?" the man called.

"Henry," the boy answered. "I'm Henry. I hurt my leg and they said I was slowing them down. The people I was with, they- _they left me behind_!" As he wailed those last words, the boy moaned and rocked back and forth as if feeling unbearable pain. He cried and shook his head, muttering to himself.

"We got places to be, kid," the man said as he cautiously moved his people closer. "We can't carry you all the way out west."

"Please help me," the boy begged. "You have to help me."

"This kid's a waste of time," Tony, one of the vets in the group, remarked. "We should just shoot him and put 'im out of his misery."

"No, don't! Please, don't!" Henry wailed. "It wasn't my fault my leg got like this, I just need some help!"

"What, you break your leg or something?" Tony asked skeptically. He passed the older guy, pointed at the blood he could see on the boy's right leg. "You just look like you got a scrape."

"I can't stand up," Henry said. "Please, this hurts so bad."

"Where was your group heading, kid?" the older man asked.

"West, that's all I know, I swear. I wanted to go to the desert."

"How're you gonna be any good to the Walkin' Dude?" Tony asked. He drew a knife from his belt. "You're no good to anybody." He paused, and the hard look on his face softened slightly. "Listen, man… there's no reason not to do this. We can't take you with us and you'll die slow if we leave you here. Just hold still and I'll make it quick."

The boy laughed then, a high, mocking sound that startled everyone in the small band of nine that had come up this way from Connecticut, slowly heading west. Tony looked at the kid and wondered what the hell was going on.

"You're funny," Henry said to Tony. "You all are so stupid."

"Oh, yeah?" Tony demanded. "How's that, kid?"

"You guys are all standing there staring at me. And you guys're all bunched up."

"What?"

Too late, Tony and the older man realized they were being watched, and they spun outward, looking frantically around. Henry casually pulled out a pair of earplugs and put them in, and smiled gleefully as Mark deliberately dropped the MG-42's bipod on the hood of a car fifty feet away. They all turned, hearing the loud _thunk _of the bipod's legs on the sheet of metal, but Mark had started firing by then. As the machine gun roared, sending 7.92mm bullets downrange at a rate of 1,500 rounds per minute, Henry grinned. He had never had this much fun in all his life. The results of Hitler's Buzzsaw ripping into a group of people at close range couldn't be described, only seen, believed, and… enjoyed.

The bodies were all mangled, some beyond recognition, when the gunfire finally stopped. Blood and pieces of bone, brains and guts were everywhere. Henry had been sprayed with some of it, and he calmly took the earplugs out and caught the towel Mark threw him as the auburn-haired boy walked over.

"You used too much ammo, Mark," Henry said.

"Ah, who cares, man? Everybody fucking dead in a country that owns half the guns in the world or something? We'll just raid every Wal-Mart and gun store there is. We're never fucking running out of bullets."

"Still ought to be efficient," Henry replied. "Mark, you clipped that old dude with a bunch of rounds. I got to see his head fucking explode from a couple feet away. Thanks. That one was fun to see."

"Hey, how come I didn't get that when it was my turn to watch up close?" Mark indignantly objected.

"Plenty of chances to do this again, Mark," Henry said, cool and collected as ever. Mark had always been passionate and emotional; he was just directing his energy in a different direction now. A better direction. Henry was proud of Mark and the progress he had made, but even so, Mark needed a colder, more controlled mind to help guide him and temper his excesses. Henry was that mind.

"I know," Mark said. "Okay. Gimme more eye candy next time, when it's my turn again, okay?"

"I'll saw their goddamn fucking heads off," Henry said. He went to the car Mark had been hiding behind, picked up his pack and the Type 68. "How much further do you think he'll run from us before we catch him?"

Mark looked speculatively down the road, considered the question for a moment. He shrugged and turned to pick up his MG-42.

"Not far."

* * *

**XX**

* * *

**A/N: 10-19-2019.**

**Surprise! Wrote another chapter yesterday, to be posted today.**

**It is an interesting process, looking up roads and towns you have never seen and know nothing about. In Stephen King's works, practically every event worth talking about, ever, happens in Maine somewhere at sometime. Because he lives there. See? Maine. It's where it all goes down. Even in "The Stand," where Captain Trips originates in the desert of southeastern California, the main protagonists we meet are all New Englanders ('cept for that Stu Redman) and most of those are from Maine.**

**I originally intended for Jason to actually be sick with the superflu when he appears, and to try and fail to murder Henry before he dies. Instead, I held off on that idea, and came up with this one instead. Jason winds up as something of an in-between to John LaFleur and Leo Rockway. John has stayed sane and his behavior and thinking is astoundingly 'normal' for all he has been through. Leo goes completely feral and does not even speak until he gets out to Boulder. Jason speaks some, but not at night, where he is no better off than Leo.**

**My guess is that Jason fears the dark most of all, both because it leaves him utterly alone to face his worst memories and imagined fears and because he is afraid of Randall Flagg. Jason has neither Henry and Mark's sociopathic nature nor John's inherently good moral compass. He is vain and selfish, but underneath it still human. He isn't comfortable with that, however; he needs, or needed, to believe in his own carefully-managed public image as the epitome of macho and cool. With everything he ever knew completely destroyed, taken from him quite brutally, Jason can no longer even try to cling to that. He has never nurtured or given much thought to who he really is or what he believes in deep down, and so he can't handle being forced to look at those things in a world where nothing else even exists anymore. Jason does hold some vague hope for the future, however, as shown in his comment to/praise for John being as fit as he currently is.**

**John's speculation about what would've happened had Captain Trips not killed 99.4% of the world population is not unreasonable. That's about what anybody who went to school with Henry Evans in the early 1990's would've likely predicted if you had asked them. I doubt that anybody saw it coming that Henry would not only reverse his status as a social failure but actually rise to become king of his high school alongside Mark. Jason certainly never expected it, and he was nursing a grudge over it well into 12****th**** grade in "The Good Sons."**

**Henry and Mark have by now murdered two groups of immune survivors. One were innocents, likely headed to Boulder, CO, and the ones seen here were going to Las Vegas, NV. Both were taken by surprise, because they didn't believe Henry or Mark could pose any threat to them until it was too late. With minds and bodies pushed beyond normal limits for boys their age, Henry and Mark are going to be quite gifted at carrying out ambushes. Nobody is going to be ready for them, whether they follow Mother Abigail or Randall Flagg. I doubt even the Dark Man would be expecting them.**

**The line "All of heaven and earth" is originally said by Randall Flagg to Stu Redman in one of the latter's dreams that ultimately leads him to head out west. **

**All reviews are welcome.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

* * *

**XX**

* * *

John found Jason outside again the next morning, naked and defecating on the grass behind the gas station store. It was too running and Jason kept making unhappy noises. John watched with growing concern. The food here was not going to be much good for much longer. Not only would it soon run out, the stuff was mostly snacks and junk food. Hardly what the human body needed, especially two growing boys. John went back inside to get some saltine crackers and a roll of toilet paper. As he searched the darkened store, John decided that he and Jason had to move. They couldn't stay here.

_But then what happens to Jason?_

John had no easy answer to that. Jason had gone feral, partly during the day and almost completely after dark. He wasn't himself anymore. He had made it out of Portland, but it was obvious that he wasn't going any farther unless forced to. Jason was simply incapable of properly taking care of himself. And from what John could tell, Jason was attached to him.

If John moved on alone and left Jason to his own devices, the already-traumatized boy would take it as abandonment. John knew he could never do that. For one thing, he'd kind of liked the brash, super-macho, overconfident Jason Morgan that he had known before the plague. A lot of kids and adults had. Before Captain Trips, Jason Morgan had been one of the most popular boys at John's school. He was so outgoing and energetic that it had been difficult not to like him.

And what was more, Jason was the last living friend John had from the old world. It calmed and assured John to have someone, anyone, left from the life he'd once known. If he hadn't found Jason, maybe John would have eventually broken under the weight of so much shock, pain and grief… the way Jason had.

When John headed out the back door, he heard Jason crying. He made sure to walk slowly out onto the grass as he approached. Jason was unpredictable in the morning, when the shattered remains of his civilized self and the feral instincts he reverted to at night warred with each other until the sun was completely and unquestionably up. John checked and noted that Jason was done emptying his bowels for now. It didn't look good; Jason was going to need more rest and better food.

John rustled the crackers in their wrapper and held up the toilet paper as he passed in front of Jason. The brown-haired boy's head snapped up; madness ruled there. He hissed and bared his teeth, then made an unhappy noise and winced as he defecated again.

"I know your stomach hurts," John said calmly, slowly. "I brought you crackers. These will help. And you need toilet paper, so here it is."

John set the items down in front of Jason and stepped away. The other boy watched him closely, warily, like a wild dog that is debating whether or not to bite. Finally he lost interest, shifted on his haunches, and began to urinate on the grass. John went back inside and checked his backpack behind the counter. He had enough provisions to get moving, enough for the first week of travel, probably two. After setting the M1 rifle next to his bag, John debated putting his shirt on, but ultimately decided against it. Instead he knocked out around 30 pushups, enough to build up a decent sweat as the cicadas started singing in the trees.

When John stood up, he saw Jason standing in the doorway to the stockroom, dressed in a pair of jeans and shoes. "Hey," John said, hoping for a friendly interaction.

"Hey," Jason said. He nodded. "Your pecs look good. Not as good as mine, but good."

"Maybe I can learn from you once we get to Boulder," John suggested with a smile.

"Maybe you could," Jason agreed. He hesitated. "Thanks for helping. Just now."

John nodded. "Glad to help."

Jason hesitated again. "All of my friends are dead. Are, um… uh… are we friends?"

"Yes," John said immediately. "We're friends." He wanted no uncertainty on that.

Relief flooded Jason's face, but he quickly hid it, clearing his throat, flexing his sturdy biceps and triceps, shuffling his feet a few times. "Well, okay," he said. "I guess we can be friends. If you want."

"I'd like that."

"Alright." Jason paused. "I don't remember. I just know everyone's dead." Jason started to look panicked. He began wringing his hands, his eyes went wide, and he started to breathe hard. "Why- why can't I remember anything? What- why can't I remember? Everyone- everyone's fuckin' dead!"

"Hey, easy," John said gently, holding up his hands. "Everything's gonna be all right. I promise, Jason."

"I don't know," Jason said fretfully. "I can't. I don't remember. I can't remember."

"You don't even know how you got here?" John asked.

"No."

"I'm going west to Boulder," John decided. "I want you to come with me. I want to show off my best friend when I get there."

A smile twitched at the corners of Jason's mouth. "Best friend?" he asked.

"Yep," John replied, smiling back.

"Whatever," Jason said, but he was clearly pleased. After more flexing and shuffling and throat-clearing to cover his macho rep, Jason said, "So you don't wanna go to the Dark Man either, right?"

"No. I hate the desert. And I'm so pale that I'd just burn up and die if I went out there anyway."

"No!" Jason suddenly yelled. "Don't say that! Don't joke about that!"

"Sorry," John said. "I take it back."

Jason coughed. "Well, I, you know. I just don't wanna be bored and stuff. Out in Boulder."

John smiled. "I got you."

"Will there be babes in Boulder?" Jason asked hopefully.

"I think so. I sure hope so." John tried a smile. "Hey, I mean, I need love, you know?"

"Yes!" Jason exclaimed, pumping a fist in the air. "We would've had _so_ much fun in high school! Fucking babes all the time, going to the gym! You, me- like, the girls, man. There would've been a line. A _line_, man, outside our fuckin' bedrooms."

John smiled, a little pleased to see Jason including him in such a what-if. He hadn't really been thinking about girls as much as Jason had clearly been before the superflu, but he was a boy and he knew he'd soon start getting those 'urges.' And things were very, very different now.

The few boys left alive would soon be needed to father children with the few remaining girls. Jason and John might both be parents before turning 20, but that was provided that they lived that long. The long, long walk to Boulder lay ahead, and it was a rough world out there now.

"Well," John said, "we better not keep the babes waiting." Jason grinned.

With Jason's spirits up, John got things packed and both of them on the road a full hour earlier than he'd hoped for. Jason talked constantly, looking and sounding like any normal preteen apart from the salvaged backpack stuffed with supplies and the .45-caliber pistol crudely 'holstered' in his right pocket.

John was happy enough just to listen, even as Jason talked crudely about girls and the things he wanted to do with them. That stuff was probably a lot of fun, but John had always thought that you were supposed to be more respectful of girls than that. After a while, though, John realized that Jason was repeatedly looking at John, constantly checking for his reactions.

_He's trying to impress me._

John was surprised by that realization but decided to laugh, smile, and agree where needed. He even made a few crude remarks and described a graphic scenario he hoped would happen between him and a pretty girl. He honestly wanted and needed to be friends with Jason. It was much, much better than going it completely alone. Periodically, John turned and checked behind him. He was reluctant to tell Jason, but he was afraid that someone was following. Maybe the Dark Man, maybe one of his agents. Maybe Henry and Mark Evans.

John was concerned that Jason would disbelieve if he brought that last one up, or panic if he did. Whatever he'd seen on the road to this moment, Jason had clearly been through enough. John didn't want to add more worries to Jason's life unless he had to.

The long, hot day made hiking beside the endless sea of stalled and wrecked vehicles harder. John gripped the M1 firmly for a while longer, then slung it over his right shoulder. He made sure to stop once in a while for water, or for relief. Jason, he noticed, avoided looking too closely at the dead cars and trucks. He'd seen all he wanted to inside them, all right. John was sure of that.

John was grateful in a new way to have Jason around. They'd both seen too much, but having each other made facing whatever would be coming on the heels of the plague easier. Jason was doing remarkably well throughout the day. He was talkative and spirited, and he was learning how to survive on his own just as John was. He clearly liked and trusted John, although that might have been out of desperation. John wondered if Jason wasn't latching onto being friends with him just to keep from going completely crazy. It was possible, but then John knew he was doing pretty much the same thing.

**XX**

The first spot of trouble John ever had with Jason since they'd met up- beyond Jason having turned part-feral and trying to kill him- happened as the two boys passed in view of a church that stood uphill from the interstate. It was mid afternoon, and John could feel the sun's heat beating down on him as they walked. He nodded toward the church and said, "I hope there's a preacher still alive. We'll need them out in Boulder, too."

Jason snorted rudely. "Yeah? And what for?"

"Someone has to preach the word of God," John answered, as if that went without saying.

"You still think God's _real_?" Jason demanded. "You think this is all part of some big plan? _God's_ plan?"

Jason's tone was harsh, and his eyes blazed like the sun above as John turned to look at him. John knew he stood on dangerous ground now, but he shifted the M1 on his shoulder and nodded. "I think so. If we listen, we can hear what God's plan for us is. Maybe Mother Abigail can tell us when we get to-"

"Alright, lemme tell you about your _God's plan_," Jason interrupted. He got closer, and John noticed with some discomfort that the other boy's strong muscles were completely tensed up. He was ready to fight and then some.

"Well-" John started, but Jason just kept going as if he hadn't heard.

"There were millions of people in the world before the plague or the fucking superflu or whatever hit," Jason said. "_Millions_, man. Millions just in this country. We had thousands in- in- in Po-Portland. And in, what, a couple weeks? We lost all of 'em. Everybody fucking dead except you and me and some fucking old lady in Wisconsin. I don't give a _fuck_. I'm not going because I care about her weird fantasies about some God, because if He is real, if he is, then He chose to kill everybody. _Everybody_! And he didn't just kill them! He made them choke and strangle and drown in their _own fucking snot_ while they ran a fever of fucking 200 degrees! He killed everybody and He made _sure _they fucking suffered!"

"Jason-"

"Every single person that we've ever known is _dead_!" Jason screamed. "_Dead_! THERE IS NO GOD!"

John staggered back as Jason blindly took a swing at him, then stumbled off among the cars. Jason doubled over, retched, then threw up. When he had no more to give, Jason's stomach dry-heaved and he collapsed on all fours. John went over and offered some crackers and water. Jason glared but accepted the offered items. When he was able to get up again, Jason started talking about girls again as if nothing had happened. John decided to let it go. It wasn't worth trying to upset him.

**XX**

Nightfall brought chills as a cold front moved in, and John headed out to the treeline to salvage wood for a fire under the highway overpass where he and Jason stopped. Jason grew steadily quieter until he finally hissed, bared his teeth, and fled for cover behind a moving van. After that he periodically crept closer to get cooked food John left out. He'd snatch it up and run off to hide among the rows of silent vehicles. Whenever Jason got close, John would speak to him in a calm and even tone, but Jason would just growl or hiss in response. Eventually, he balled up under a GMC Suburban and fell asleep. John saw him shivering as the night wore on, however, and brought the sleeping bag from Jason's bag over to him.

Jason instantly snapped awake, made as if to charge, then hissed and dashed away among the cars and trucks. He only returned after John had withdrawn to the fire he was tending to. After briefly pulling curiously at the sleeping bag, Jason dove inside and went back to sleep. Soon after that, John almost fell over while poking at the fire and realized he needed to rest himself. He had been putting it off, finding excuses to stay up as he watched out for Jason, and for… whatever was out there in the dark. With the world having fallen silent at last, the Dark Man's time had come. Monsters that John had once feared lived in his closet were out there, serving the Walkin' Dude.

John didn't know how he knew that terrible being's name, yet he knew. He just did. The Tall Man. The Dark Man. The Walkin' Dude. He was the embodiment of evil. John feared him, and knew that there would be consequences of refusing to go to Las Vegas, the city where the Dark Man was gathering followers, consolidating his power. But going to that… that hellish monster… it was unthinkable. John knew he could never do it. Jason would instantly desert him, and John could never hope to face his parents and the rest of his ancestors in the world to come. They would never forgive him for bowing to a being of pure evil.

Rain blew cool wind under the overpass as a storm moved in. John shivered and left for the cover of a gray Ford Ranger's enclosed bed. It was musty in there, but good enough for now. John moved his pack inside and unrolled his sleeping bag, then got inside with the M1 beside him. He no longer felt at ease without it. It was amazing how fast things changed, how swiftly he'd adapted. Just a short time ago, John had been surrounded by the towering achievements of human civilization, by its benefits and luxuries. His chief worries had been avoiding homework, chores and boredom. Now it was a fight to just live another day, to fend off the monsters in the dark.

Thunder rumbled outside. Rain was now falling in waves. John closed his eyes, but couldn't quite shake the feeling that he wasn't alone. He fell asleep still thinking of the Dark Man. Who- or what- was he? Where had he been all this time before the plague killed nearly everyone? The world was lifeless and empty now, its once-busy roads, highways, cities and airports darkened and quiet. This was the Dark Man's time now, his moment come round at last. John wanted no part in whatever he had planned, but a man like that, if he was even genuinely human, didn't seem interested in leaving others alone. You could choose to avoid him, but would he let you be? Not likely. He'd come after everyone, given enough time, and do what he wanted to them.

John had never been interested in big confrontations, and he still wasn't interested now. He didn't like dramatics at all, in fact. But he wanted to live, too, and it surprised John how strongly that desire resonated with him. He'd fight if he had to, just like he had when Henry and Mark had surprised him at home back in Portland. And he had more to worry about than himself now. He had Jason to look after, and John was going to protect his friend.

No matter what it took.

_I am not alone_, John thought as the rain drummed outside the overpass. Depending on how he thought about it, those words brought him either fear or comfort. The Walkin' Dude was out there, and Henry and Mark Evans were, too. But so was Jason Morgan, damaged though he was, and so was God. John still believed in Him like he always had, even if He had seen fit to allow the death of most of the human race.

_I am not alone. I still have something. I am not alone._

**XX**

Sitting in an empty Cadillac Coupe de Ville, one of many abandoned cars that were stopped forever just short of the highway overpass, Henry and Mark Evans might well have agreed with John. They knew very well that he wasn't alone.

"C'mon," Mark hissed for the third or fourth time. "He's right there. Let's just get him."

"Easy, Mark, easy," Henry said, grinning at his brother. "He's got a friend now. We should include him in the fun."

**XX**

Jason Morgan woke up early in the morning just as the rain was finally ending. He hurried out from under the overpass, found a nice spot on the grass, then pulled down his dirty underwear and defecated. It wasn't as painful as before.

_Shit good_, he thought in the simplistic language he reverted to at night, when his fears always got the best of him, when his base instincts ruled everything he did. _I shit good. Wait, done now. Okay, gotta piss. Good, good._

Once Jason was all done with that, he wiped himself with some of the odd paper that other kid had given him, the nice one that Jason wasn't sure if he trusted. His feral instincts said to run, fight, kill, hide, but 'John' offered food and helped when things got bad. That said he was a friend. But Jason's friends were all dead. Even Tony Summers, although Jason didn't know where his friend had gone. Maybe he'd never know.

Jason spent a while foraging for food and succeeded in locating wild blackberries. Then he wandered back toward the overpass, dazed and uncertain of what to do next. His mind was trying to think in more complex terms, but all that time roaming as a feral made that hard to do.

"Hey, man!" a boy's voice called out as Jason got near the overpass. "Hey! Jason Morgan!"

"Yeah!" Jason shouted excitedly, recognizing the voice. "Yeah, John! That's me!"

The blond boy approaching him laughed. "No, I'm Henry Evans. Remember?"

"Henry Evans?" Jason asked. He frowned at the well-dressed blond boy, trying to remember. "Creepy Henry?"

For an instant, Jason saw rage flashing in the other boy's eyes, and Henry's face went cold and white as snow. Then Henry smiled again, warm and charming.

"No, I'm just Henry," the blond assured him. "My brother Mark survived, too. How's that for luck, huh?"

"Luck, yeah," Jason said. "I did a shit." Many, many days on his own, operating on base instincts, made Jason feel rather proud of taking a dump with toilet paper all on his own.

"Hey, you did?" Mark Evans said, clapping Jason on the shoulder as he walked up. "I did, too!"

"No, no!" Jason exclaimed, shuddering and shrugging Mark's hand off. "No! No touch!"

"Okay, man." Mark said. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"So how'd you survive this long?" Henry asked.

"Looks like our man went feral."

"So, how was that, Jason?" Henry asked, grinning. "You ate whatever you could find, shit and pissed wherever you felt like it, ran around naked and generally acted like an alley rat, huh?"

"Not sure," Jason mumbled, not liking the way these two were treating him. "Not sure."

"Jeez," Henry scoffed. "You used to be so fucking popular. It's okay, Jason. Everybody's dead now. Doesn't matter who's popular anymore."

"I don't remember," Jason said. "Not sure. I- I don't remember."

"Did your parents die? Mine did," Mark said. "I saw it happen, Jason. I watched. It was cool."

"I saw," Jason said. "I don't know, what, but- but I saw. I can't remember now."

"His mind's fucked," Henry said. "Jason, do you believe in God?"

"I don't know," Jason said.

Henry smiled. "Well, let's just say you get to find out if He's real, right now."

Before Jason could question the meaning of that statement, Henry pulled out the M1911 he'd been hiding behind his back and shot Jason in the head.

**XX**

John couldn't find Jason when he woke up, and right away he knew something was wrong. He ran frantically among the cars and trucks, searched all the little spaces where a feral kid might hide under the overpass. When he looked up and saw Jason again, he felt a flood of relief, but terror instantly set in as he saw who else was out there, maybe a hundred or a hundred and fifty feet off.

It was Henry and Mark Evans. They had found Jason and were talking to him, toying with him from the looks of it. John tried to scream a warning but his chest had tightened up so much he could hardly breathe. He silently, helplessly watched, saw it all, as Henry smiled at Jason, said something to him, and then shot him in the forehead with a pistol.

"NO!" John screamed. He'd found his voice at last.

Henry and Mark turned as Jason fell, his head a bloodied mess. They grinned and sprinted forward, dove behind a car and briefly disappeared from sight. John's hands shook as he went for his M1. As he got it off his shoulder, John saw Henry and Mark reappear, demonic glee in their eyes, guns in their hands. Mark dropped the long, heavy-looking weapon he carried on the hood of the car closest to him. Henry simply shouldered the gun he was carrying.

_Oh, no._

Almost too late, John hit the ground as Henry and Mark opened fire. The roar of the two guns together was so loud it drowned out the world. The Evans boys were both carrying automatic weapons, and they made liberal use of that feature for… John didn't know how long. He had struck his chin hard on the pavement when he fell, and lay there on the blacktop as if pinned there. Somehow, his feet had been swept out from under him as he'd stood there cluelessly, not quite realizing what was happening. Somehow he was still alive.

The gunfire continued with the steady clatter of Henry's automatic rifle and Mark's machine gun. The latter made a ripping sound as it fired, a lot like fabric tearing. John stayed frozen behind a stalled Chevrolet Astro as Henry and Mark's bullets tore it apart. Glass showered him as they completely destroyed the windows, then chips of paint and even pieces of metal as those monsters laid into the van further.

_OhGodI'mgonnadieI'mgonnafuckingdieJesusChristfuckfuckfuckMomDadI'msosorryJasonI'msorryIswearItried-_

_GET AHOLD OF YOURSELF!_

John's rising panic slowed as that second thought entered his head. He knew it was God, God speaking to him somehow… even if God did sound exactly like his grandfather. The old vet who'd taught John about the M1 Garand would sure have known what to do right now. John wished Grandpa was here.

_GO FLANK THEM OUT, YOU STUPID SONOFABITCH! AND STAY DOWN! THEY'RE BEING CARELESS, DON'T HELP THEM FIND YOU!_

John obediently started crawling away from the destroyed van, whimpering in pain as his bare arms went over the sea of glass and metal. His elbows got the worst of it by far, but John kept the M1 in his hands and forced himself onward. A glance behind him showed Henry and Mark had realized John might have gone prone and were firing lower and lower by the second. John crawled away faster, teeth clenched tight against the pain, swearing and sweating and praying to God for a chance to live.

Then, when John had made it some twenty or thirty feet away, the firing stopped. John listened but kept crawling as his ears, still ringing from the apocalyptic noise, began to catch what Henry and Mark were saying.

"…alive or what? Did I get you, you fucking faggot?"

"How's it feel, motherfucker?" Mark shouted. "How's it feel to be fuckin' dead?"

"Did you even kiss any boys before you died, Johnny? Or was that just in your little gay dreams?"

John didn't waste time answering. He crawled, wishing the pain in his elbows would stop, begging for the agony he was feeling to not be so bad that he'd cry out, giving away his position. He stayed in the "high crawl" as Grandpa had called it, keeping his M1 safe and clear of the ground. It was all he had. The M1, and the 8 rounds of .30-06 loaded into it. There was more ammo in his pack, but getting to that would take time. Time that John probably didn't have. He'd have to win this with few reloads, if any. And any reloads he did perform would have to be fast.

"Okay, I guess he's fuckin' dead," Henry decided, lowering his voice. "C'mon, Mark."

"I wanna cut him right between the legs," Mark said eagerly. "Cut it all off. Let me do it."

"Sure thing, Mark."

"Did your gun get real hot? Mine's fucking burning up."

"Jeez, I had that problem with a chick the other night!"

"Fuck off, Henry."

"I love you, Mark."

Mark's voice grew emotional, affectionate, as he responded, "I love you, too."

They were nearly to the Astro. John crawled faster, wanting to put as much distance and as many vehicles as possible between himself and the place where Henry and Mark would find out John wasn't dead.

"Okay," Henry said distantly. "Motherfucker's gonna be back here. I saw him drop."

"Yeah, and it was me that got him, Hitler's fuckin' buzz-saw, man."

"No way, it was me and my fucking Type 58- hey!"

"Hey!" Mark shouted, his voice rising in outrage. "The motherfucker's not here!"

"Oh, Johnny!" Henry yelled mockingly. "I wanna go on a date with you! All the girls're dead, so I think I'll turn gay now!"

Mark snickered. "Man, you know that's not gonna work."

"Worth a try. He's so fucking dumb," Henry said. "Okay. One more."

"Hey, faggot!" Mark shouted. "You come out now, right fucking now, and we'll kill you fast instead of slow!"

"We'll make it last for days if you don't give up now," Henry promised. "Days. And we'll even stitch you up after we cut your dick and your balls off, so you can live a while longer. I know how to do it."

John just kept crawling. He knew what the odds were here, what the score was. It was life or death, kill or be killed. The deadliest game of hide-and-seek he'd ever played. The fear of capture he'd felt in those old world games in the backyards of so many houses seemed so remote now, so far-off and childish. This was for keeps.

"God_damn _it!" Mark screamed. "I'll _get you_, John, you little faggot! Run and hide all you want, we'll find you! You'll be fucking sorry you ever shot at us!"

You started it, John thought as he kept crawling, moving under a dump truck. You came to my family's house while I was burying my parents. You saw the pain, the grief. You had to have seen it. But instead of helping me you tried to kill me. So I tried to kill you. That's life, man. That's how it is.

But if you listened to Mark and Henry telling the story, it was all John's fault somehow. Like he was supposed to have cooperated, just laid down and let them murder him. Maybe, in Henry and Mark's minds, everything was someone else's fault. Never theirs. They couldn't make mistakes. If they attempted to commit murder, that was their right, and the other person was at fault if they resisted. Maybe that was what justice looked like to those two.

John stayed down until his elbows could bear it no longer. He got to his knees and continued forward in a low crouch, hoping he wouldn't be seen.

BRRRRRRRRRT!

A spray of bullets from that machine gun said John had most definitely been seen. He dove for the front wheel of a big Pontiac sedan, peered around the chrome front bumper, spotted Henry and squeezed off two shots down the iron sights.

BANG! BANG!

BRRRRRRRRRT!

Mark had seen or heard John's firing, or both, and had quickly adjusted his own. John jerked back behind the cover of the Pontiac, grateful to still be unharmed. He sprinted low until he got some four vehicles away, then turned and fired again at Mark.

BANG!

The steady clatter of Henry's automatic rifle started up again, and John dove for the cover of some low-slung sports car, what little it offered. He stuck the nose of the long-barreled rifle over the top and fired twice. Five shots. He'd used five so far.

"I'm gonna cut your little worm off and cook it in front of you!" Mark yelled. "I'll get you! You'll be fucking sorry then!"

_No way, man, I got girls to party with, I need to use that thing later_, John thought of saying, and the idea made him laugh. Jason had definitely planted that one in there. A self-proclaimed ladies' man if there ever was one. John sobered as he realized that Jason was on the ground out here somewhere, shot and killed by Henry and Mark Evans. They had taken the one friend the plague hadn't.

John ducked and dodged for a while longer, fired off a shot here and there. He dreaded the noisy PING! that came from the M1 as it automatically ejected an empty en bloc clip, but the metallic sound was completely inaudible past a few feet thanks to how much Henry and Mark were shooting.

Finally, Mark grew impatient and charged in to "finish the little fag off," breathing hard under the weight of that machine gun. John hid behind a car but sure enough, Mark headed right for it, having already seen him. The M1's bayonet was already fixed in place on the end of the barrel. It was more than capable of doing the job. So John kept the weapon parallel to the ground as he waited just past the rear left corner of the Oldsmobile 98… and held it firmly in place as Mark eagerly sprinted around the corner, machine gun in his hands, and ran right into it.

"Ugh!"

John fired reflexively, splattering the ground behind Mark with blood and pieces of tissue. Mark dropped like a sack of potatoes. His crisp blue eyes stared up at the sky, wide as they could be. John didn't need to even check for a pulse; he knew that Mark Evans was dead.

"NO!" Henry howled from his firing position. "NO! MAAARK!"

You killed Jason, John thought fiercely. I guess you only like it when it's not you.

With nothing left to lose, John shot several times at Henry in rapid succession, going for the head. The blond youth screamed in rage and dove for cover, then got back up and sprinted forward as John fired again. Henry fired wildly at John but failed to hit him, and John's M1 spat out another en bloc clip just as he missed with his eighth shot on his third clip.

"RRRRRRAAAH!" Henry yelled, sounding as savage and primal as Jason had in the gas station store. He sprang forward and narrowly missed cutting John's throat as he leapt over the hood of a car. John brought the M1 up to meet him, bayonet first, but Henry saw it in time and twisted his own rifle to block.

The two boys collided and hit the pavement. Henry cried out and John heard something snap, and realized gratefully that Henry had just severely injured one of his ankles. Sure enough, as they grappled up close, John kicked Henry in the left ankle and got an agonized cry of pain.

"Stop this!" John shouted. "Stop!"

"Grrrrrrah!" Henry howled. "RAH!" With clawed hands, he went for John's face, his rifle forgotten. John got a firm grip on the M1, struck Henry in the stomach with the butt, and quickly scrambled up and moved away.

"Don't- move…" John panted. "I'll… surrender… and… you live."

"Grrrrrr!" Henry said. "I'll-kill-you! I'll-fucking-kill-you!"

"I never did anything to you!"

"Mark! Killed Mark!"

"Because you two tried to kill me! You followed me all the way here and killed Jason! Why?"

Henry grinned, and John saw the cold, pitiless look in Henry's eyes then. There was no humanity there. Henry and Mark hadn't attempted to kill John the first time because he'd actually done anything to them, because all three boys knew he hadn't. The Evans boys had come to kill John simply because he was there, because they could. John felt a tremor of real fear. Henry's blue eyes were as empty and soulless as any hellish monster's, and that grin said that John could talk all he wanted, Henry would never, ever stop. There would be no end to this until one side or the other was dead.

John ordered Henry to stop, aimed the M1 and threateningly gestured with the bayonet, but Henry just laughed. He got uncertainly to his feet and went for the automatic rifle. John fumbled for a new en bloc clip, then gave that up as a wasted effort. Henry took a step forward, attempted to thrust the bayonet toward John's chest, then screamed as his injured ankle gave way. His left knee buckled, and Henry struck his head on the open door of a Mercury Topaz. Henry died as quietly as his adopted brother. He hit the pavement, shuddered, sucked in one small, final breath of air… then let it out again and went still.

John stood there for a few moments, adrenaline coursing through him, a savage joy at having won the fight beating in his heart. He threw back his head to the sky and screamed. Then, having done that, John doubled over and vomited. Then he fell to his knees and sobbed for nearly half an hour.

**XX**

After going through every possible stage of hysterics, John picked up his M1 and staggered off among the cars, trying to find Jason, hoping against hope that his friend was still alive. He found Jason lying on the ground where he had fallen, blood everywhere. The other boy looked strong and handsome, even in death. The girls would've loved him, had the superflu not killed all of them.

John looked up at the sky and howled again, this time in anguish, in grief. He ranted and cursed incoherently, committing unthinkable blasphemies as he swore at the Lord Himself for letting me live while Jason, Jason had to die.

Then, finally, John had nothing else to say. He set down the M1 and knelt beside Jason and cried. A brief afterthought told him to try for a pulse. It was pointless, sure, but… what else was there to do?

John picked up Jason's left wrist and clumsily felt for a pulse, expecting nothing, certain he'd get nothing.

_A pulse! He's alive!_

The pulse was weak, barely there at all, but Jason Morgan, somehow, was still alive. John broke down and cried all over again, thanking God, this time, for letting Jason breathe a little while longer. As storm clouds gathered overhead, John slipped off his pack and Jason's, then picked the other boy up. He thought of the church uphill a few miles back and looked around. Up past another green, grass-covered hill was a silent intersection with some stores, and a ways off to their right… a steeple.

John slung Jason over his back and got started, putting one foot in front of the other. The effort was hell after all he'd been through, but John made the mile-and-a-half journey anyway. Soaked in sweat, he barely noticed as rain began to fall. He staggered into the church and found it miraculously empty, mercifully free of decaying bodies.

There was no time to think as John laid Jason down at the base of the altar on his back. He went out into the rain and hauled both boys' packs into the church, then went out yet again and took Henry and Mark's. He retrieved their weapons, their ammunition, and finally, their bodies. Even as the rain pounded down, John dug a grave for each of them in the church yard. He prayed as he worked, hoping that God would somehow find it in Himself to forgive even these two. Whatever they had been on Earth, they were in His hands now.

When John thought he could bear it no more, the water-filled, six-foot deep graves were ready. John could barely stand up by that point, so he simply rolled Henry into his grave, then Mark into his, then shoveled mud back in on top of them both. It was a crude effort, completely without ceremony, but John wasn't sure what else to do. No way could he have put each of these two into a proper casket and gotten that here before their bodies started to rot.

John finally called the effort off after patting the last of the muddy earth down. He dropped the shovel between the two graves to mark the spot, making the decision to assemble a wooden cross for Henry and one for Mark later on. Then he stumbled off for the church doors, threw them open, then let them swing closed again.

With practiced effort, John got the first aid and survival kits out and worked to clean and bandage Jason's wound. It had struck the skull and gone around the side, digging a trench along the right side of Jason's head. There would be a prominent scar there for as long as Jason lived, John knew, even if Jason did survive this.

John tended to Jason until he dropped to the carpeted floor on his own, snoring right beside the other boy. When he woke up hours later, he dug out the dampened sleeping bag he'd retrieved for Jason's bag and set it up to air-dry, then fell into exhaustion-induced sleep yet again. Then, with great effort, John ignored his overworked, agonized muscles enough to lay Jason out on the dried sleeping bag and set some linens he'd found in a hallway closet over him. Then he sat down with the M1 in his hands, meaning to keep watch over Jason.

Instead, John passed out within five minutes and didn't wake up until twelve o'clock the next day. He didn't dream, didn't see any visions of the Dark Man, of Las Vegas, or of Mother Abigail and her home in Nebraska. John didn't see anything. He just slept, deep in that unique kind of sleep only brought on by total exhaustion.

* * *

**XX**

* * *

**A/N: 2-24-2020.**

**My first update to this story in a full four months! I had a lot to keep me busy but I should have some opportunity to write again going into 2020 from here. Hard to believe we're already this close to being done with the first two months of the new decade. I can't offer any specific timetable for when I will update this story again, partly because I have to sketch out my plan for what else the story will feature. Feel free to post a review or send me a PM about this story if you like! And regardless, I intend to plan out the rest of this story and complete it. I never leave stories I start unfinished.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

* * *

For day after day John watched fretfully over the fallen boy in the church, first carefully cleaning and bandaging the gunshot wound and other scrapes he'd taken in the fall afterward, then making sure he was resting and above all, safe.

It was difficult work. The church roof must have been overdue for work when the plague killed off all its members, because the driving rain exposed several leaks. John managed to find a few pails, buckets, and small trash bins that he used to catch the water, but that necessitated constantly checking them all and emptying them outside again and again.

John never left the M1 behind. Anything he did, anywhere he went, he either held the M1 in his hands or had it slung over his back, bayonet fixed. Having killed with it now, having depended on it for his very survival, John needed the firearm like he needed air. His mind would not tolerate the idea of parting with a dependable weapon. That was just a normal part of life now.

With no one else there to stand watch, John simply stayed awake until he passed out, day after day, night after night. It was hard on him, but John didn't know what else to do. What he needed was to simply never sleep, but that wasn't possible. Thankfully, no one ever turned up to bother him or his friend. In fact, in all the days since he had buried his parents at home, apart from Henry, Mark, and Jason, John had never, not once, seen or heard another human being.

And out of the three, he'd killed two of them. It wasn't a great omen for prospects down the road, John felt, but he also couldn't see any way around what he'd done. If he hadn't killed Henry Evans and Mark Evans, they would have just killed him. They'd made that quite obvious.

Once the rain finally slowed, then stopped after two days, John spent most of the third day going out to search nearby houses, even cars, for useful items. He found enough horrific sights, enough decaying bodies, to last for the rest of his life, yet still he searched, resigned now to the idea that there would be more.

The trips were worth it, at least. John came back with ammunition, canned food, a brand-new twin-size mattress, still in its plastic wrapping, a few bags of charcoal in case he needed them to cook with, and sealed gallons of water. He kept one gallon at Jason's side in case the other boy woke up while he was gone.

Nightmares came, grisly and real. John saw Las Vegas, saw the Dark Man, stumbled through a Nebraska cornfield, terrified that he'd lost Jason, that Jason had been taken by something out there in the darkness, out in the endless fields of corn.

A few times John saw Mother Abigail, and he found himself minding his manners with her, treating her with great respect. He explained, more than once, that he could not leave his shelter, not now, even as she insisted nowhere would be safe from the Dark Man for much longer, that he had to hurry on his way.

Once, John saw Henry and Mark again, and that one was the worst of any of them.

**ΩΩΩΩΩ**

John stood up abruptly, realizing he'd fallen asleep again, passed out on the carpet in front of the first row of pews. He tightly gripped the M1 with both hands, looked around, then realized with horror that Jason was gone! A trail of dark, muddy water and gobs of slimy mud ran from the open side door to the church, to the spot below the altar where Jason's empty sleeping bag still lay, and back outside.

"Jason!" John shouted, sprinting for the door. "Jason!"

No one answered, but as John slipped and fell in the mud and slime, caught the stink, the horrible stink of it, he thought he heard something besides rain outside. He heard… laughter. A boy's laughter.

Forcing himself to his feet again, John ran outside and shouted for Jason again. Someone snickered this time, and John peered into the evening rain and saw Jason, his eyes wide in terror, being dragged towards a pair of unearthed, water-filled graves.

"Help," Jason mouthed, seemingly unable to speak. "Please help me."

"Stop!" John shouted, raising the M1. Two figures shifted on the grass of the graveyard, and John felt a tremor of fear, a fear too big to comprehend, as two boys in filthy, soaked clothes turned from crawling on their bellies to laugh at him.

One bore a ghastly wound to the side of his head; the other had a ragged gap on the back of his shirt, plus a circular one and what had to be a knife wound on the front. Matted with dirt and slime as it was, their blond and auburn-brown hair was still recognizable, their cold blue eyes soulless, gleeful and somehow alive.

John fired, saw Henry's body jerk from the impact, but he laughed and kept going. John shot him again. Henry just laughed more. So did Mark, when John shot him twice. He fired until the M1 was empty, then stood there helplessly, rooted to the steps, watching Jason's terrified, pleading eyes bore into his.

Finally, as they neared the graves, John sprinted forward, meaning to run the monsters through. He sank the M1's bayonet into Mark's back, dropped it and grabbed for Jason, but nothing seemed to help. The two things laughed their dirt-encrusted, watery laughs, and Jason whimpered, his arms limp and useless, their unnatural angle showing them to be as broken as his legs.

"Help," Jason whispered as John reached for him. "Please. Not like this. Not like this!"

"I won't let them take you!" John cried. "I won't let them get you!"

"Just watch us, asshole," Henry mocked him. "Come on in, and you'll swim with the rest of us."

"No!" John screamed desperately. "NO!"

"Listen to him cry," Mark laughed. They were inches from the closest of the two graves, its gray water seeming to go down forever, far beyond just six feet. John looked around frantically, saw his discarded Garand lying in the mud. He leapt for it-

-and heard the snap of bone as something grabbed him, broke his left leg. As he screamed in pain and collapsed, a steel hand closed around his right, and he heard a snap again.

"Please," John begged, lying on his back as a shadow fell over him. "Please. Just kill me."

"No," Henry Evans smiled. "You're not getting off that easy." He grabbed John by the collar, turned, and began dragging him toward the grave. "I can stand, now," Henry said, and indeed he could, though his steps were clumsy and uncertain, like a toddler's. "Soon I'll walk. Mark, too."

Jason was crying helplessly, still looking to John for help. Mark rolled into the grave, disappearing from sight with a splash, and after a moment he reached back out and pulled Jason in.

"No, no," John whispered. "Anything but this!"

"C'mon," Henry snickered cruelly. "Come on and swim, pussy." He grabbed John by the neck and pulled him under the water.

**ΩΩΩΩΩ**

Bright sunlight was pouring in the church windows when John snapped awake again, soaked in his own sweat. He sat up, panicked and looked around, saw Jason lying there, sensed the reassuring feel of the M1's wood stock in his hands. Sweaty, hyperventilating, sure, but John knew he was also alive.

He got up, carefully, and went to one window, looking out to see Henry and Mark's graves. They were undisturbed, the crude markers still intact. He turned back to see the carpet was clean, unmarked aside from a few dirty footprints.

Jason was still lying in his sleeping bag, looking… better, at least, than he had been. John was glad just to see him. It was good to simply observe the steady rise and fall of his chest and know that he was alive.

Unwilling to leave him again unless he was here long enough to run down on supplies, John picked up one of the Bibles still sitting in the pews and began reading, seated right beside Jason. He made sure to unzip the sleeping bag and leave it open as the day grew hot, ensuring Jason could rest comfortably. There John stayed for hours, and expected to stay the whole day, until he noticed movement and realized Jason was stirring beside him.

After a few moments, Jason sat up and looked around, blinking at the bright sunlight coming in through the windows. He noticed John and looked up.

"Hey."

"Hey," John said, a little cautiously. Jason's awakening had taken him by surprise and he was unsure of how to proceed.

"Henry shot me," Jason remarked.

"Yes," John replied. "I got you out of there."

"Okay." Jason frowned. "I can't remember. How come I can't remember?"

"You got knocked out," John told him. "You've been out for a couple of days."

"Where'd Creepy Henry and his cousin Mark go?"

John hesitated. "I killed them."

Jason stared in disbelief. "You what?"

"I had to," John insisted. "I-I didn't want to, but I really didn't have a choice-"

"That's _awesome_!" Jason exclaimed. He jumped up and hugged John tightly, made a funny little giggle. "Thanks. I always hated Henry. He was a bastard. Nobody liked him."

"No, nobody really did," John said. "I wonder what- why he and Mark did that."

"Oh, jeez, I'm-I'm fucking naked," Jason blurted, abruptly letting go of John and looking down at himself. He was actually wearing his underwear, but that didn't keep him and John from both blushing crimson and looking away, coughing uncertainly.

"I had to clean you up," John said quickly. "You kind of- you were a mess after Henry shot you. And I didn't want you to overheat in the sleeping bag."

"Well, jeez, if you wanted us to fuck, forget it, 'cause I only fuck girls," Jason told him. "Not- not that I'm not comfortable in my underwear. The babes love me like this."

"I'm a ladies' man myself," John insisted. "I just helped you out."

"Yeah. Well, we're not going on any dates, okay?"

"Sure."

"Where'd you leave my stuff? Lemme go get dressed."

"Right over there," John said, pointing.

Jason quickly put a pair of shorts on but chose to stay bare-chested, insisting he needed to "stay cool and get hotter," for when they got to Boulder. He proceeded to improvise a workout for half an hour, adding random comments about his masculinity and lack of romantic interest in John.

After sitting there the whole time, John sighed irritably and pulled his own shirt off and threw it aside, then grimly joined Jason in a new round of pushups. The other boy looked at him in surprise and then redoubled his efforts; this led to a series of one-up games that kept the workout going for another thirty minutes. Both of them were sweating pretty heavily by the time Jason finally said he was done for now.

"So I saw that old lady again," Jason said, sitting down on the carpeted steps leading up to the altar.

"You did?"

"Yeah. She's really big about this God stuff." Jason paused. "Said it doesn't even matter if I don't believe in God. I said I don't, she said that's just fine, he believes in me." Jason cleared his throat. "You know. Whatever that means. And, she said you're not a total jerk, and we gotta go to Boulder and stuff."

"I saw her, too," John replied. "And the Dark Man."

"Henry and Mark would've just gone to him," Jason said, his face darkening. "They were fucking evil. The old lady said they were 'wickedness,' or whatever. So they got what they deserved."

"I'm just glad you're alive," John said honestly.

"You wanna kiss me or something?"

"No, I just- I, uh…" John cleared his throat and did his best to imitate Jason's macho-cool voice. "Yeah, you know, I don't wanna be bored, and cool shit always happens around you. Not that I like you or anything."

Jason stared at him uncertainly, trying to determine if he was being made fun of. "Okay. Uh… that makes sense. I think the same thing about you, basically."

"Good."

"Okay."

"Fine."

"Yeah."

"Whatever."

"Coo- _hey_, you stop that!"

"Stop what?" John asked, grinning.

"I'm not a fag so stop trying to- I dunno, whatever you're doing!"

"I'm just messing with you," John said. "Because we're friends."

"Lucky you," Jason blustered. "I mean, lucky that someone as cool as me lived."

"You're right."

"And you got to stare at me naked for a few days," Jason leered. "Was it fun?"

"Jeez!"

"I thought you _believed_ all this church crap," Jason said, gesturing around. "Did you bring me in here so God could _save_ me or something?"

"It was right up the hill," John said. "That's all it was."

"I still don't believe in God, you know. And I don't care if you do."

"Okay. That's fine."

"Jeez," Jason said. "You and Mother Abigail. Being all- I dunno, all nice and shit."

"You don't like us being nice?"

"I don't like you."

"Yes, you do. You asked if we could be friends."

Jason sighed. He looked around self-consciously, then hugged John tighter than before. Then he let go and looked away.

"That never happened."

"Sure."

"I mean it! I will _kill_ you if anyone finds out!"

"I won't make you look bad in front of the babes," John promised.

"I hope some super hot girls lived," Jason said fervently. "_Please_ let some hot girls my age be out there."

"_Our_ age, dude."

"Yes, our age."

"You gonna let me have a few of 'em?"

"A couple. On Fridays when I'm too busy, you can take some of the girls from the line outside my door so they can get some love. I mean, not that great but it'll be better than standing there. And once I fuck 'em they'll know what a real man is like."

"You're not even thirteen yet."

"I'll still be the biggest man in Boulder," Jason boasted. "I mean the biggest." He patted his crotch and held up his biceps, flexing each of them.

"And the smallest," John teased, tapping Jason's forehead.

"Hey, hey," Jason fussed, "don't mess up my hair. It costs forty bucks to do it up right and stuff."

"That bandage can come off in a few more days," John said. "I changed it a few times and you're okay. Just leave this clean one on to be safe."

"What're you gonna do, play doctor? Is that how you wanna get laid?"

"I dunno," John admitted.

"Don't you _want_ to?" Jason insisted.

"Of course," John quickly replied. "Yeah, I do."

"We'll have no trouble," Jason said easily. "It'll be so easy."

"Sounds good."

"I'm gonna open a YMCA out there," Jason declared. "When I get there. To Boulder. I'll teach everybody how to respect their lousy bodies and make 'em worth looking at and stuff. And we can have that cool song about the YMCA and I'll reopen the pool there so people can see me with my shirt off and be jealous and everything."

"Okay. Sounds good."

Jason looked at John. "You think they'll have one out there?"

"Sure. Plenty of cities have 'em."

"Are you gonna work there?" Jason asked.

"If you want me to."

"Yeah," Jason grinned, slapping John on the back. "It'll be awesome, man. You're gonna be so glad you got to be friends with me."

"I already am glad."

"Oh, jeez," Jason sighed, his cheeks tinged pink. "You're trying to make me like you again. But you won't. Cause I don't like you. So there. Yeah."

"Okay," John replied. "Well, I don't like you, either."

Jason laughed. "You liar." He got up, swayed and nearly fell. John sprang up and caught him, then gently helped him sit down again. "Goddamn it," Jason muttered. "I thought- I felt okay earlier."

"Not every day you get shot in the head," John cracked.

"It didn't hurt," Jason said, touching the right side of his head. "Why- why didn't it hurt at all?"

"You got knocked out fast," John said. "That's all I can think of."

"Yeah." Jason's stomach rumbled loudly. "I haven't eaten a fucking thing."

"Don't worry," John said, getting to his feet. "I got plenty. I even found a bunch of Kingsford bags, so we can get hot food for once."

"Awesome!" Jason cried. "That's sweet, you're the best!" He suddenly couched and looked away, adding, "Well, the best because you've gotten to hang out with me. I mean, I guess you've learned some things."

"Sure have," John agreed. "I'll get some food ready. Just take it easy."

"I never do anything else," Jason answered. "I'm too cool, man."

"That's right," John said.

"Dork," Jason told him, but he quickly covered his mouth with one hand as he started smiling.

As John was about to go outside and get a fire started on the grill he'd pulled out of the church basement, Jason called out, "I guess you can work at the YMCA with me. If you want. You know, I could let you, if you really ask me. I guess."

John stopped, saw the hopeful look on Jason's face. His tone was skeptical and too-cool as usual, but Jason sounded like he was hoping John would agree. Remembering how desperately alone and afraid Jason was, how alone they both were save for each other, John made sure to give Jason a friendly smile.

"Yeah, man," he said, shrugging. "I think that'd be really cool."

Jason nodded. "Okay." He smiled, then quickly acted like he hadn't. "Yeah, all right. So… when are we going to Boulder?"

"We both need more rest," John decided. "But soon. Let's give it a couple days."

"All right." Jason paused. "Um… you're a dork. But I want you to, uh, you know, hang around for a while. Okay? So I'm not bored."

"Don't worry," John said. "I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

**A/N: 5-14-2020.**

**I can't tell you how good it feels to finally have this chapter done! I had my ideas for it already in mind and was starting to sketch it out when my former laptop died on me. No idea what happened, it just won't turn on anymore. Eventually, when this COVID19 business is over with, I'll get the old laptop to a shop and have them look at it. For now, my new laptop will take care of business and then some. It's way better than the old one. It's ironic that I'm updating a story set in a world where an easily-communicable virus brought civilization to its knees in an astoundingly short time as Corona Virus continues to take lives and devastate economies all over, but hey, all history has to do is happen, as Harry Turtledove said.**

**Jason Morgan has retained one key element of his pre-Plague self; his insistence on an obsessively-maintained macho personality. He is vain, pushy, and arrogant, and because he's more than a little insecure about his masculinity, he is constantly talking about his strength and prowess and talking about girls. He also struggles to tell people he genuinely likes how he feels about them, and so has to hide his growing trust and liking for John behind a mask of "I don't like you" claims and stories. He may not fully believe what Mother Abigail has told him, but he can't pretend his dreams of her, and the words they exchanged, didn't happen. Jason, like Nick Andros did, told Abigail Freemantle he doesn't believe in God. Like the wonderful Christian and human being she is, Mother Abigail isn't put off by that one bit.**

**I don't think jumping up and hugging John like he did is something Jason would normally do, but then, he's not his normal, pre-Plague self anymore, and nobody else is, either. I think that getting shot in the head probably also helped throw him off a bit. Jason is still Jason in many ways, though. I think him being openly happy that Henry and Mark Evans are dead is in-character for him. He isn't as concerned with doing the right thing or being forgiving as John is, but Henry and Mark did very little to earn any form of forgiveness.**

**Exactly what was said between Jason and Abigail I don't know; I think I'll leave those visions to the reader's imagination, at least for now. But Mother Abigail must have explained some things, helped convince Jason that John is someone he can trust. Jason also understands that John saved his life and killed the two boys that ambushed him, which helps as well. The trauma Jason is suffering from means he will probably struggle after sundown for a long time, maybe for the rest of his life. But for now he has gained some trust in John, which will help both of them on the long road to Boulder, Colorado.**


End file.
